“That’s enough, Michelle!” Diane snapped in the ugly raised voice of the enforcer. “Can’t stop, thanks,” he answered. She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. 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. The garçon was tipped as he had never been tipped before in his life.
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