The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. She lifted her shoulders in an eloquent shrug. A creeping numbness invaded her. Only a few weeks ago there was a bloody battle on the bridge there between the soldiery and the local police. 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. It came to Ann Veronica one night after a long talk with Miss Miniver, as a sudden remarkable thing, as a grotesque, novel aspect, that this slowly elaborating biological scheme had something more than an academic interest for herself. It had been her home for hundreds of years. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that.
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