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. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. Wild is a friend of yours, I'm sorry for what I said. This is your moment.
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