She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. 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. I bent over him. The report of his detention caused an immense sensation. She winked at him as he shut the door. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared.
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