Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. I've my own reasons for disliking this job. " "Oh, dear!" simpered Edgeworth Bess, endeavouring to hide her confusion by looking steadfastly at her plate. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. 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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