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The fashions of the day have become antiquated. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. 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 was our first commander, and a more stiff-necked—’ ‘Exactly so,’ concurred Lady Bicknacre. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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