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. As we turned the corner of the street, I noticed that the electric light was burning in this room. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. “Well?” she said. “What do you want to go out here for, Lucy?” He 217 asked.
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