Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Epithalamy might do. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male. For all that she was of exceptional intellectual enterprise, she had never yet considered these things with unaverted eyes. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. You said that it would bring trouble. They had changed identities absolutely.
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