On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Anna merely glanced at the coarse, flushed features, and at once shook her head. He would know the truth then once and for all. “Did she? I’m sorry, Mike.
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