The Death of a Gentlewoman
Lady Constance Ashworth was beautiful. She knew this, and she used it the way a pianist uses a piano -- not constantly, not desperately, but with the skill of someone who has practiced for thirty years and knows exactly which keys to press and when to let the music hang in the air. At fifty-two, her beauty was fading. Not dramatically -- she was not the kind of woman who ages badly. She aged...
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