"Because I knew what you wanted me for!" answered Thames firmly. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. "I want you for the job I spoke of a short time ago, Nab," he said. 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. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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