"It won't do to betray the officer," he muttered. "I'll go to her directly," said Wood, bustling towards the door. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. 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. ‘No. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. Tomorrow you will feel like a freed woman.
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