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'm sorry. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. She saw marks in the dirt where he had been pacing. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads.
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