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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. “It’s okay, Michelle. Unless they remind him now and then not to. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. ‘You said it. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack.
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