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185 Publicações
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02/01/1964
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V-07: The Secret of Blackwood Manor (Southern Gothic)T8-01: M₁+M₆. Georgia, 1932. Blackwood Manor is a skeletal remains of a plantation, draped in Spanish moss and secrets. Cora is the mistress of the house, a woman whose skin is as pale as the lilies in the graveyard. Her sister-in-law, Maybelle, is a small-town girl with a laugh like a summer stream, set to marry a lawyer from Atlanta. Cora believes the Blackwood bloodline is sacred and that...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Porcelain ParadoxIn the high-gloss circles of Manhattan, image was the only currency that mattered. Sofia was the crown jewel of the social scene—a woman whose symmetry was so perfect it felt architectural. Her marriage to the son of the Van der Bilt-esque Sterling family was seen as the ultimate merger of beauty and power. The Sterlings, however, were practitioners of a subtle, psychological warfare. They...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 0 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Dream of TomorrowThe champagne flute slipped from Tommy O'Brien's fingers and shattered on the floor of the Plaza Ballroom, but he didn't hear it over the jazz band playing "Alexander's Ragtime Band." At twenty-five, Thomas "Tommy" O'Brien had already made and lost more money on Wall Street than most men saw in a lifetime. He had also seen the trenches of the Somme, and both experiences had taught him the same...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE WEIGHT OF NOTHINGI Raymond Kowalski woke at 5:30 every morning. He dressed in the dark—dark trousers, dark shirt, the same jacket he had worn for five years. He ate toast with margarine. He drank coffee that was too weak because he had stretched the grounds with extra hot water. He walked out the front door at 5:45. The factory was two miles away. It took him twenty minutes to walk. He walked at the same pace...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Patient from BelowACT I Dr. Henry Blackwood's clinic was on Harley Street, in a building that had been a townhouse before someone with money and no taste turned it into a medical practice. The waiting room smelled of carbolic acid and lavender—two smells that had been mixed together by someone who thought they complemented each other but in fact created an odor that was worse than either alone. Blackwood sat in...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Apartment on Elm StreetThe rain started at nine. Betty knew this because she had looked out the window at nine-oh-three and seen it begin, thin and hesitant, like something that was not sure it wanted to commit. By nine-thirty it was solid. By ten it had that particular October quality that Betty had come to recognize over sixty-three years of living in Youngstown: not the dramatic rain of movies, but the tired rain...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Concrete JokeIn the heart of Soho, where the galleries are white and the egos are larger than the buildings, Mark lived a life of curated virtue. He was a "Conceptualist," a man who believed that the most important part of art was the intention behind it. He spent his days attending openings and his nights reading Kierkegaard, convinced that he was the only authentic person in a city of simulations. His...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 14 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Void of CompanionshipSam lived in a city where the noise was a constant, aggressive tide, but his apartment was an island of absolute silence. It was a small, white cube in a nondescript building, stripped of all ornament. He owned four chairs, one table, and a bed. He lived a life of subtraction, believing that the fewer things he possessed, the more room there was for the essence of existence. But Sam was not...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Weaver's WitnessThe looms of the Lancashire mills were monsters of iron and steam, their rhythmic thumping a heartbeat that drowned out the cries of the children who crawled beneath them. I have spent forty years in the shadow of those machines, and I have seen many things break. But nothing broke as completely as Clara. She arrived on a Tuesday, a small, shivering thing wrapped in a blanket that smelled of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 15 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Aesthetes' ReturnThe Aesthetes' Return I. Julian Ashworth dreamed of color dying. It was not a metaphor. In the dream, he stood in a gallery—white walls, parquet floor, gaslight dimmed to amber—and before him hung a painting he recognized as his own. A landscape of the Sussex downs, painted that summer, bright with green and gold and the blue of a sky he had studied for weeks to get right. But in the dream, the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 18 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Last Summer of Children's IslandHer brother's voice drifted up from the kitchen below, where the children of Children's Island had assembled themselves for dinner on a Tuesday in August, 1888. Thirty-seven of them, ranging from eight to fourteen years of age, sitting at tables made from upturned crates and doors. Eleanor was thirteen and had been in charge for eleven days. She was very good at being in charge. Her father had...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 17 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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sample-刘慈欣短篇科幻小说合集-01-202606011308.txtThe Stellar Elegy March 15, 1887 I saw it today. The anomaly. It appeared in the telescopic data as nothing more than a slight perturbation in Uranus's orbit—a gravitational tug that didn't match any known celestial body. I told Professor Thorne about it at dinner that evening. He ate his roast beef in silence, then wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and said, "Edmund, you've been working...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 17 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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