And if she was ever found living in the area like that, homeless, John could somehow find out. Manning called. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. 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. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back.
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