‘Do you know, Mademoiselle Charvill, you are a thought too clever for your own good. 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. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. She ran away after she had divined that Gianfrancesco had remarried. John’s demeanor shifted.
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