She advanced, stabbing at him. He had died before they married, and when her brother became a widower she had come to his assistance and taken over much of the care of his youngest daughter. 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. She was the High Priestess. She moved a little nearer to him. Most unsatisfactory. It wasn’t pretty. He never felt any need to explain himself. For a few days he was able to relegate his conscience to the background. "Don't disturb yourself," continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke.
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