The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. “Just leave them with me for now, Clotilde. ‘Charvill?’ uttered Roding frowningly. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled.
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