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 kept his keen eyes steadily fixed on Thames, as if awaiting to be addressed. She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. Your first treatment of a subject is always correct, always suggestive.
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