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. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. She found she could do her microscope work all the better for being in love.
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