Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Ha!" exclaimed the stranger, as shouts and other vociferations resounded at no great distance along the thoroughfare, "not a moment is to be lost. . . But her request was unheeded. "It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew," cried Trenchard.
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