It was plain that a man of his age could only be interested for one reason alone, yet she felt compelled to at know him a little before the main event. No, not one little bit. 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. ” He stood up with his legs parted in an inverted “V”, puffing up, trying to make himself look bigger. She had but to choose. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. I'm sure she'll let me go, though.
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