“I don’t see,” gasped Ann Veronica, “why parents and children. She saw Lucy darkening her doorstep and stood from the recliner. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. 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.
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