Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. She removed it. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. She pulled, he rose to his feet.
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