At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. 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 could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Mr. Kneebone, Van Galgebrok, and Baptist Kettleby—all of whom greeted him cordially.
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