‘Been led up the garden path by that confounded rapscallion. Rage flooded her at his intent, but she controlled it. 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. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that.
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