THE GLASS MENAGERIE''S LAST LIGHT
The candlelight guttered in its brass holder, throwing long shadows across the paneling of Ashworth Hall. Eleanor sat at the edge of the four-poster bed, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white as bone through the pale skin. The sheets were linen—English linen, woven in Leeds, she was sure of it—yet they felt alien against her arms, as though she were touching the skin of...
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