I received a telegram, as you know, during dinner. "Give me your thorough-paced villain. 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. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. “Women have been and are treated as the inferiors of men, we want to make them their equals. “Of course,” said Miss Miniver—she went on in a regularly undulating voice —“we DO please men.
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