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. He was also, had she known it, more than a little insincere. “There’s no end of things I’d like to talk over with you. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. He recognized the face instantly. People sat in unusual pews, and a wide margin of hassocky emptiness intervened between the ceremony and the walls.
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