electrode

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References in classic literature ?
She had been used to his subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not improved in the last year.
I don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself at last.
She remembered nothing more until she awoke and found herself in a beautiful meadow, full of sunshine, and with countless flowers blooming in every direction.
When she thought of Vronsky, it seemed to her that he did not love her, that he was already beginning to be tired of her, that she could not offer herself to him, and she felt bitter against him for it.
She would buy so and so many yards of percale for new shirt waists for the boys and Janie and Mag.
Surely you knew that the screen was brought here to protect you,' for she will reply scornfully, 'Who was touching the screen?
She was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out.
Then she went away, and told the old King that the thing inside the iron stove would not have her, but wanted the Princess.
The dairy-work lasted only till the milk began to lessen, for she had not met with a second regular engagement as at Talbothays, but had done duty as a supernumerary only.
Mary's self-possession returned almost excessively, and her welcome was decidedly cold, as if she must recoup herself for this ridiculous waste of emotion.
They were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and with stockingless feet she followed the poor straw coffin in them.
and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again.
Slowly Hetty had read this letter; and when she looked up from it there was the reflection of a blanched face in the old dim glass-- a white marble face with rounded childish forms, but with something sadder than a child's pain in it.
Where that loss had struck her numb, this quickened every sensibility, drove her into action; more than that, as she realized how much less there was to regret in the boy's life than in his father's, how much more he had got out of his few short years, the edge of the older, more precious sorrow, dulled.
Thornbury, although she had asked them to tea, was nowhere to be seen.