The Ticket and the Terrace
Clara Hayes arrived at the Kensington mansion on a fog-drenched December evening in 1887, the kind of fog that turned gas lamps into pale halos and made the cobblestones gleam like wet iron. She carried her instrument case—a violin, borrowed, with strings that had gone thin—and a small portfolio of sheet music. She had changed into her best dress, which was black wool patched at the elbows, and...
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