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. ‘Because I’m a female,’ declared Lucilla unanswerably. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. “Hey you,” he said affectionately. In one of the little red circles the doctor had traced that abbreviation.
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