The coach was slowing down, and he realised that they had arrived in Golden Square. “We have to get in, I think,” said a nice little old lady in a bonnet to Ann Veronica, speaking with a voice that quavered a little. 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. But this was a vicomte’s sister. ‘But I don’t trust you an inch.
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