Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr.
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