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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. “My sister is sure to be out. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. "Those tears will do you good. “Go down and rescue the rags of my reputation,” she said, smiling. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. ’ The girl nodded understandingly. ” To remain, she felt, was to concede everything. ” She breathed an inner sigh of relief.
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