’ Impatience overtook Melusine’s resolve momentarily. The villagers were thronging to church. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. Not fit to be dust on your boots. For the present the desire to fly was gone. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. 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.
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