At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. “I couldn’t help it. Do you mind talking to some one else. I’ve wanted you—always. 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 same, I don’t admit it.
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