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. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. “David Courtlaw!” she repeated. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study.
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