In one of these seats, at the end of the aisle farthest removed from the chancel, the widow took her place, and addressed herself fervently to her devotions. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang. She looked at him mournfully.
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