She wanted his attention, but so did everyone else. "I should think so," responded the lethargic turnkey, with a yawn. 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. If you knew your aunt were alive, if she expected you, that would be different.
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