It was perfectly logical. “Reuben, come here. Stanley changed his key. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. 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 did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully.
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