" CHAPTER XVIII. Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. " "The same who was here just now?" "No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy. 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. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. I’ll show it to you later. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch.
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