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Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr. I do not love any one. “There is some mystery about you both,” he exclaimed, with sudden earnestness.
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