I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Not much to his surprise, Jack Kimble shook his head. 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. Melusine ripped at the buttons of the garment, dragging it open and away, and gasped at the massive red stain on his shirt.
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