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“Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. She could smell the savory tinge of his sweat in the air. 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. ‘But it is not on the horse at all, Jacques. A man’s children nowadays are not his own. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders.
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