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 hate children. You go home and live on the G. He lowered her neck before her, and she noticed a bizarre urge to bite him rising from her mind like an itch. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “Alice—Alice gone dotty, and all over kids.
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