. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. 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. “A thick-set, coarse-looking young man, Anna!” she exclaimed in a hoarse excited whisper. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Ruth came to him directly.
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