” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 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 did not know herself. With a view to raise recruits for his corps, the warlike woollen-draper started for Lancashire, under the colour of a journey on business. He saw what he had done only as it related to Ruth. Twenty-one, twenty-two.
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