Madame Valade was that kind of woman. 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. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. Waving a white flag, naturally.
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