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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. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. “Oh, John, please!” “You are already leaving me.
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