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Cheveney was another Paris friend, was he?” she asked. 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. When they started getting on each other’s nerves, she blamed herself at first. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away.
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