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"Heaven have mercy on his soul!" ejaculated Wood. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. 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. ‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy. I'll go with you. .
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