“And if she can’t have the right one? “We’ve developed such a quality of preference!” She rubbed her knuckles into her forehead. 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. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. "What shall I do? If I persist, I shall destroy her.
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