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. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk.
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