It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding. 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. You’re dogmatic. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. CHAPTER XI. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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