’ ‘Don’t talk soft,’ begged Martha. ’ The old man simply stared at her. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. 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. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. I have seen many of them.
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