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. They smelled good, but they no longer smelled like food. John knew better. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. It was as if he could smell it on her. That delightful sense of free, unembarrassed movement was gone. “I want a plain word with you about all this.
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