Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. She quickened her pace, and so did he, talking at her slightly averted ear. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce.
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