Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. 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. "Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously. But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the younger, and more interesting couple.
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