“How would you wash an axe if it had traces of blood on it, and you wanted to remove the traces?” In the spring of 1950, Richard Cobb was asked that question by his old schoolmate Edward Ball. One of the leading British historians of the French Revolution, Cobb brings to his memoir the same idiosyncratic focus and flair that animate his scholarly works. Throughout the book, the reader’s fascination is held as much by the author as by his murderous friend; like some amiable but not entirely harmless relation of Patricia Highsmith’s Tom Ripley, he narrates his gruesome tale with a confidence and concentration that is creepily seductive—a reaction, one suspects, that Cobb would relish.
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