Then it came to her with a shock, as an extraordinary oversight, that she could never tell Manning about Ramage—never. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. A nod was exchanged. 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. Wood turned to look at him. The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back.
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