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” He shook his head, and his eyes and the mouth under the black mustache wrinkled with his smile. ’ For a moment or two there was dead silence in the parlour. 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. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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