She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. 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. All this torrent of misleading, spurious stuff that pours from the press.
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