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. "Read the first chapter of Job"; beyond that, nothing. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. It's precisely the same thing to me to bid my janizaries cut Thames Darrell's throat, as to order Jack Sheppard's execution.
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