THE FADED PORTRAIT
The portrait in the hallway had always belonged to the house, not to her. Clara Hargreaves knew this the way one knows the colour of one's own eyes — not through certainty, but through a lifetime of looking.
It hung at the foot of the staircase in a frame of tarnished gilt, the surface yellowed to the colour of weak tea. The woman depicted wore lace at the throat and a...
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