‘Why, that’s one of the names with which she tried to fob me off. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she panted, shifting wildly in his hold, so that he had all to do to keep her thus imprisoned. Selfishness. 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. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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