“I had to. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. 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. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart.
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