Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. In doing so, he had to clamber up the immense heap of bricks and rubbish which now littered the floor, amounting almost to a car-load, and reaching up nearly to the top of the chimney-piece. You are very lovely, Ruth. E.
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