“Hold on, she’s right here. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. Fear nothing. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. 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.
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