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. "By my soul," said the sexton, "that's as like Jack Sheppard as any one I ever seed i' my born days. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. Her little white hand stole across the table.
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