"It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. 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 a hopeless job," grumbled Blueskin, "and harm will come of it. I'll call it my wedding gift. Almost simultaneously they burst out laughing.
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