She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. "I can do without it," muttered Jack. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper.
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