“So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. "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. ‘To see Charvill.
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