I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. He walked through a wide open archway, curtained with deep-blue curtains, into the apartment that served as a reception-room. 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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