"I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription. 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’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. ” He stopped abruptly.
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