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Enter! Elbow in at the door. Men? Women? Simpering, clay fetish-faces counting through the turnstile. Ah!

II. This sarcophagus contained the body of Uresh-Nai, priestess to the goddess Mut, Mother of All—

Run your finger against this edge! —here went the chisel!—and think of an arrogance endured six thousand years without a flaw!

But love is an oil to embalm the body. Love is a packet of spices, a strong smelling liquid to be squirted into the thigh. No? Love rubbed on a bald head will make hair—and after? Love is a lice comber! Gnats on dung!

“The chisel is in your hand, the block is before you, cut as I shall dictate: this is the coffin of Uresh-Nai,