He glanced at the ruins of his High Priestess. He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. A sob was strangled in her throat. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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