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His legs were dreadfully swelled; his hands bruised; and his fetters occasioned him intolerable pain. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. It hardly served his interests. He began to tell me something—and stopped. 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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