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He sent me home. A brief feeling of empathy with Pottiswick passed through him. I don’t love you. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. 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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