Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. “I think as I feel in a good humour it must be the latter. It is but a wild threat. ” She thought of her father, and with an effort dismissed him from her mind. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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