He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. 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. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. “Of course we go to school. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth.
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