“Call me Annabel. 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. “What if you get pregnant?” His worry came to a quick fruition. “Rummy lot we are!” said Roddy. "I suppose he'll be on his feet any day now.
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