The young officer sat in front, his hat perfectly straight. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. He paid the cab, and turned to follow 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. If you don’t eat humble-pie now you may live to fare worse later.
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