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. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna’s flat. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. During detention she orchestrated Ray Plote's murder.
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