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. He wondered if the young fool had any idea of what he had drawn in this tragic lottery called marriage. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. ***** October.
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