She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. There was no answer, just grunting, so she repeated the question in Latin, then in Greek, to which Rhea responded. 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. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. He filled her glass with champagne.
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