She went into premature labor. She sat herself upon the bed. 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. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours.
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