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" "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Next instant he had her immobilised, her hands behind her back, her chest crushed to his, the white veil slipping once again. " "Six," he corrected. 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.
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