The picture of Mary Remenham was still on the wall. 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 was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. You are a detective?" "Yes. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. ” Anna had suddenly stiffened. “Who from?” She met his eye for a second and her heart failed her. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. He was a fool.
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