There never is much left for me. 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. Miss Stanley hesitated, and took first one and then another of the constituents of this costume off its peg and surveyed it. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor.
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