Anna, who had sung the first verse of her song, looked around the house, a little surprised at the absence of the applause which had never yet failed her. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued. 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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