Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. 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. “I will take my chance.
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