Perhaps the day of her recompense was at hand. 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. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. The boy’s besotted. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. You had better let me go again.
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