A woman may choose any one for her lover, but for her friend she makes no mistake. And a broken picture that was torn when I hit him with it. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. 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. "Good night, Master.
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