" "There's but one way of clearing it, your worship," said the Master, archly. Mike was already on dishwasher duty when John rang the doorbell. 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. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. The man who came to our rooms, you know, that night was his friend.
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