Over here, there was generally some unusual twist to a case. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. 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. “It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me.
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