He returned her to her door at a decent hour, well before 10:00. 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. "Heaven be praised, I am not the son of a nobleman. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre.
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