Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. ‘I am done, Gérard.
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