And were you to load me with thrice the weight of iron you have ordered you should not prevent my escaping a third time. 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. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. She’d have thrown this thing if you hadn’t stopped her.
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