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. The freezing water lapped around her ankles as she ran along its edge, marveling at the thousands of tiny white spiral shells the tide had brought in. “It’s precious unromantic. And Pottiswick, of course. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. “No, I’m not a virgin. Operations then commenced.
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