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. ‘You don’t believe her?’ ‘My dear Major Alderley, I do not know her,’ Mrs Sindlesham pointed out. One comes at last to the step from dreams to reality.
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