"Don't stir," replied Jack. “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. I can never be grateful enough. 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 had eaten little or no tea, and her mid-day meal had been worse than nothing.
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