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. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. It wasn’t.
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