"Never throw away a chance," thought Jonathan. 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. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. No matter. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink.
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