Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. 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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