Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment.
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