Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. He continued to do this for the rest of the evening intermittently, in and out, among other topics. "What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother.
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