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 tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. The man who staggers, whose face is flushed, whose attitude is either noisily friendly or truculent, has some chance; liquor bends him eventually. Spurlock stepped into the room. He was mad. ‘You make me talk, you make me talk. Then we can loiter and gossip to our heart’s content.
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