She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. 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 won’t. I do—with all my heart. ‘Except Captain Roding,’ agreed the old lady, nodding at the butler. Sorry I’m a bit late the first evening. And talking of every conceivable thing. I didn’t see everything last time. Liberates the girl from parental control.
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