He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. 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 got nothing in the world to pack with except a toy size portmanteau. ” Cathy insisted. " "The same who was here just now?" "No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy. I think too much about myself.
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