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He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. 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. “Showtime!” Martin cried. E. Your life is like a funeral March. Their faces were masks of abject horror, sunken and shriveled, their cheekbones protruding. Ennison?” “He spoke to me, thinking that I was you,” Anna answered.
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