John sat pensively in the back of his best friend's mother's minivan, piloted by his best friend Mark. “One can talk without undertones, so to speak,” said Ramage. 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. He returned, sitting on the floor beside the couch adoring her and stroking her bare arms.
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