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. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. She played “Happy Birthday” for John, after which they plied her with a dozen requests.
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