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I think not, Annabel. ” Cathy hugged her. Eh bien, we shall see. She crooked her finger. 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. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album. Her eyes noted it mercilessly.
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