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. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. . “Well, hello there. \" He panted, wiping sweat off of his brow with a towel.
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