" "Conscious; well, that's good news. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. The chance had gone. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven.
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