"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Stow it in the saddle, for I will take it with me. He returned, blue towel in hand. 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 Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes. Sheppard," said Thames.
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