"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. 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. ’ ‘And she’d be right,’ Martha said severely. There was just a minute’s hesitation before they gave her a room.
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