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That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. There’s nothing a girl can do that isn’t sweated to the bone. ’ He strode to the fireplace behind the leather-topped desk and addressed his own reflection in the mirror, wagging an admonitory finger in his own face. Wood, was examined. They are not your children, they never were. 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.
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