For this three weeks had been the hardest of her life. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. E. Anna did not pause, but she looked over her shoulder with slightly lifted eyebrows. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. I had that coming. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form.
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