Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. But they were too late. “In Paris our lives were far apart, and we had seldom the same friends. 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. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. Never mind. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. ‘Yes, th-there it is,’ she uttered, stumbling a little over the words.
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