“I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. "I don't know what his idea was. "Where is my mother?" he added, regarding the knight with a searching glance. 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. "Choose between good and evil;— between him and me. Somewhere you may stumble upon a clew to his identity.
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