Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Lucy felt the hairs on her neck rise. I worshipped her and subdued myself. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. Wood was an old friend of mine—and I recollect seeing Jack when he was bound 'prentice to him. 8 or 1. ) He hesitated. On regaining his breath, he began to consider whither chance had led him; and, rubbing his eyes to clear his sight, he perceived a sombre pile, with a lofty tower and broad roof, immediately in front of him.
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