Gilded Ambition
ACT I The mud of the Meuse-Argonne didn't smell like mud. It smelled like the inside of a wound — copper and rot and something sweet that Julian Ashford could never identify and never forgot. He walked out of it with a shrapnel scar on his left shoulder and a notebook in his breast pocket that he had filled with words while other men filled it with lead. He was twenty-two. He had seen things...
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