In fact, one of them was downright sceptical. 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. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. “Tell me,” he said; “speak to me. Somewhere in the world there was a book clerk with a discerning mind; for he had given her the best he had.
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