Everything was going to hell. I can’t even carry a tune with a bucket. "You've arrived sooner than I expected, Sir Rowland," observed the thief-taker. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust.
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