works. 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. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. I understand nothing of what you say. Satisfied in this respect, he flung himself into a chair, for his iron frame seldom required the indulgence of a bed, and sought an hour's repose before he began the villanies of another day. Wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of me, even I knew anything, which I don’t. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said.
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