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. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him. She shuddered as his naked body pressed against her. Rushing towards the entrance of the well-hole, Blueskin touched the secret spring.
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