Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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