Her father was distinctly irascible, and disposed more than ever to hide away among the petrological things—the study was turned out. 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. “That’s all. “So, do you want to become a vampire?” Michelle was quietly delighted.
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