‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. 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. She wanted to live. Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. " Spurlock turned aside his head as he replied: "Words are sometimes useless things. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it.
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