And she had been doubting since that walk in the Zoological Gardens whether, indeed, he did simply care for her. But he told me this much, that no matter how far Mr. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. 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. She refrained.
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