It’s to do with adolescence. 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. Good-bye, aunt. After that consolations fled. I tore the marriage certificate from his pocket and burnt it. ’ ‘Eh bien, you are not a saint,’ Melusine snapped.
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