It’s an emerald. 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. Gosse had hidden himself successfully then. She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. ‘Keep your distance! You dare to tell me I cannot refuse?’ He glared at the girl. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. “Well, you’ve seen the kitchen and the dining room, but did I show you the basement?” He asked.
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