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. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. If you live, well and good; if you die, well and good. She hesitated in answering the door, her violin still crooked underneath her chin.
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