Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The hope that had been suddenly kindled in the youth's bosom was as suddenly extinguished. “Then turn round and go back there,” she directed. And if you treat me in this way, you will have my death to answer for, as well as the deaths of my husband and child. “So you still think of me as husband, even though we have long since tired of each other.
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