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 had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge. E. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge.
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