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. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. At once. Fine but strong lines marked the profile: that would speak for courage and resolution. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock. She infused menace into her voice. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely.
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