“One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Both carried packages of books and magazines. 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. "And now," said Thames, (for we must still preserve the name,) "you will no longer defer my happiness. That's the way it goes. Wood could stand it no longer.
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