Not at all. Then there was also the horse. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Life is two things, that’s how I see it; two things mixed and muddled up together. 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. “I’ve tried to make words tell it.
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