The Rose Without a Thorn
The rain in Hyde Park that November did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain suspended between the earth and the sky, and Eleanor Price stood beneath the dripping branches of an oak tree, trying to decide whether to run for the carriage or wait for the downpour to end. It was a foolish question, really. The water was not going to stop. But the alternative---walking three miles in soaked...
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