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. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. "Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. She would never again be lonely. "You'll lose no time," said the thief-taker. The money will last longer, and—it won’t bother you.
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