There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. “Hello, Gwen!” said Ann Veronica, trying to put every one at their ease. He called a waiter. 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.
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