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 was not without considerable demur and delay on the part of Sharples that the carpenter and his companion could gain admittance to the round-house. " "I declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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