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. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle.
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