Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. 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. ‘Then I am not mad in the least. I would even make over my engagement to you, if Mr. Sebastian's arms were about her, his fists pumping her stomach as she coughed forth saltwater from her belly and lungs. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne.
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