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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. While they were thus occupied, a maid-servant entered the room, and stated that a person was without who had a packet for Captain Darrell, which must be delivered into his own hands. She touched it, and her gaze lifted. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. “It’s not for us to supplicate any more.
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