“I complain then.”
“Your complaint shall be forwarded in its turn.”
“Have others complained?”
This question was unmechanical, and the Committee of the Mending Apparatus refused to answer it.
“It is too bad!” she exclaimed to another of her friends. “There never was such an unfortunate woman as myself. I can never be sure of my music now. It gets worse and worse each time I summon it.”
“I too have my troubles,” the friend replied.
“Sometimes my ideas are interrupted by a slight jarring noise.”
“What is it?”
“I do not know whether it is inside my head, or inside the wall.”
“Complain, in either case.”