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. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. She glanced into his face. "We shall all be murdered. Then her eyes flashed. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. Besides, I have my doubts that he is so very sick. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought.
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