“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. 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. I beg that you will consider me your friend. His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. But Miss Mary and me—’ Melusine looked up as the woman broke off again. ‘You should rather be arresting the girl and throwing her into gaol for attempted murder. “What are you doing here? How dare you come to my rooms!” The man stepped into the middle of the room.
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