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“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. 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. She smiled encouragingly, laying aside her plate and turning her chair from the table.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 30-09-2024 16:21:26