B. Sheppard, faintly. As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. 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. Ennison, or any other young man. He tells me that you will not even see him. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature.
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