Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. To prevent the leaves from blowing about, should a blow develop, he distributed paper weights. ’ At last. “What do you think of them?” Anna extended her critical survey and shrugged her shoulders. “Time for my Patience,” she said. “Here goes,” he said. ” “Friends!” said her father. But I dare not accept it.
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