God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John. I almost died from this flu. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. He was not quite sure whether, after all, he had been wise. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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