‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. 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 ate their mother first. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. As she started, rearing up her head, a hand stole about her mouth and closed down hard.
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