The Poisoned Paradise
Dublin, 1895 Lord Dantey killed his dog with the same precision he applied to everything: the measured dose of morphine dissolved in warm milk, the firm hand pressed upon the Afghan hound's ancient brow, the patient waiting while Dorian's dark eyes grew soft and distant. The dog had been suffering—ulcerated gums, teeth loose in his jaw, the slow decline that time exacts from all living things...
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