“Dear John,” she whispered. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. 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. III. " "Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?" groaned the knight.
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