McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. 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. She listened, her suspicions confirmed. I do—with all my heart. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. ‘Imbecile. ” She raked into the fire with the poker. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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