The mighty concourse became for a moment still. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate. “If I had three hands,” she said, with a faint smile, “I would give one to each of you. 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.
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