” He said flatly. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. 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. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions.
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