She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. “We mustn’t have any unpleasantness, and Mr. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. ‘You said she was beautiful. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. 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.
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