Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. The priest normally assigned the duty in the Iovelli family had fled days before from the chapel. Fortunately, ever since Wild's late murderous attack, the household has all been well armed. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Then she threw the volume away with a little impatient exclamation.
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