” “You and your father?” Lucy asked. ” She dropped back into a crouching attitude and began to weep. 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. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. They walked past his old jungle gym set to a hilly park that dwelled sleepily beyond his house.
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