” He repeated several times that he would trust her, though it remained obscure just exactly where the trust came in. Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. 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. In any event, I would not have let her escape me so easily. Not that there had ever been any hope of that. Yet an indiscriminating, wrong-headed world gave such fellows all sorts of distinctions.
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