shouldn’t be friends. 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. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. Ann Veronica watched her and wondered about her. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. ‘Could she have been a spy, after all?’ ‘Oh, she’s not a spy,’ Gerald answered, almost absently.
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