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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. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. I have written, called—of what avail is anything—against that look. Let's talk of this chap. ‘Must be still downstairs. She saw the Chamberlain girls getting into a plethora of different cars (with barely a stitch on) with young men who seemed unnaturally excited about their first “dates”.
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