She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. The months that followed September spiraled downward. 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. Bête, she told herself fiercely. Stanley changed his key. Wood, at Dollis Hill —" "Let me have one," said a carpenter, who was passing by at the moment,—"Mr. “I’m inclined to think, Stanley, myself that as a matter of fact it was the expurgated Romeo and Juliet did the mischief. She winked at him as he shut the door.
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