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Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. 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. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. ” He said. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed, pervert?” “Yes sir. The conversation turned towards the subject of the Diedermayer’s many European vacations. " CHAPTER V. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city.
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