. . . . She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. 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 detected that the young officer’s shoulders tensed whenever she moved in the back of his 94 car. Neither their mother nor Sebastian noticed, as certain members of the house had taken to avoiding each other. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. . Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St.
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