. 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. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. I can’t love you. ‘He prayeth best who loveth best—all things both great and small. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves.
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