She gazed steadily out of the window at that arc of glittering lights. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. We want it badly at the present time. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. "But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. In twenty minutes we meet in the hall, remember. But probably not the truth.
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