The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. 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. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. If I’d known, there would have been a different story. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. “I must read him when I come out.
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