On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. He was just as much a greater master than any other I ever saw, as he was a greater judge of time and measure. I was his wife. So, at least, thought one of two persons who were seated together in a small back-parlour of the house at Dollis Hill.
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