Chapter Seven ‘Oh, my God,’ burst from Gerald. 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. He never finished his sentence. “That is where I got confused,” he said. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. And all the third act is love-sick music.
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