The Warmth We Claim
The Chiltern House smelled of beeswax and old money, the kind of place where the chandeliers had survived three wars and the floorboards still remembered the jazz bands of 1920. It was Grandmother Peabody's birthday, and the whole extended family had gathered in her Park Avenue salon to celebrate another year of surviving it. Alice Chenault arrived at nine, all sequins and restless energy,...
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