“You mustn’t talk any more,” he said, “but I want you to listen to me just for a moment. 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. You want to think for a time, to be free for a time. Pragmar probably knew Mr. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street.
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