Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. 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. How different were his present feelings compared with those he had experienced on quitting it. "She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. He told me with a coarse nervous laugh.
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