" "I hear," said Sir Rowland, moodily. Her head rose. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. 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’m not to study, I’m not to grow.
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