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With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. 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. Their eyes met, and his expressed perplexity and curiosity. He believes that he is leaving this conscience behind; and I want to watch his disillusion on this particular point. "Leave him to me," he said. " "You did right," returned Trenchard.
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