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 never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. In his way he was critical. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting.
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