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. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. As it is, we've only a couple of ducks—and they were intended for you.
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