Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand. Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. I like such interviews. 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. ‘Oh, I do love a flatterer.
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