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Updated: May 29, 2025
On the shelf over the fire-place Durham had noticed a kerosene lamp, a cheap, rickety article with a clear-glass bowl half-full of oil. He rose from the stool, reached for the lamp, put it on the table and lit it. "Here, that oil costs money," Dudgeon snarled as he looked round. "Half a crown won't cover luxuries you'll pass over another bob if you're going to waste my oil."
From the ceiling dangled a green cord ending in a cheap, clear-glass bulb, but its light was sufficient to penetrate even the farthest low nooks made by the three gables. He blew out his candle and dropped it, as useless now.
"Anything, anything. . . . Very well." The priest got in instantly; the door closed; and the next moment, through crowds, held back by the police, the great car, with no driver visible in front through the clear-glass windows, moved off southward. It was a moment before either spoke. The old priest broke the silence.
Far out in the very center of the spaceport, a high, clear-glass skyscraper rose, catching the sunlight in a million colors. Around the building, small copters and robotcabs veered, discharging passengers; and the moving sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going.
The servants came in as usual with the dishes there was roast lamb to-day, according to old usage, among the rest; and three or four wines. A little fire burned against the reredos, for cheerfulness rather than warmth, and the spring sunshine flowed in through the clear-glass windows, bright and genial. Yet the difference was profound.
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