Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. ‘Come, mademoiselle, it is of no use to conceal anything from me, you know. They thought that she was her own mother. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. In the beginning was afraid; but after the first several cases, I had only pity.
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