She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. 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 fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. Recurrently she heard: "I don't know; I really don't know.
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