"Why do you laugh?" he asked. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. 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. What marriage really meant (aside from the idea of escape), Ruth had not the least conception, no more than a child. .
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