“I really had not thought about it at all,” Anna answered smiling. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. 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 rarely set foot in London these days. At Anna’s words she seemed suddenly to stiffen. .
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