The Dimming Sun
ACT I — THE DIMMING SUN The mansion sat on the bluff above the Mississippi like a corpse on a pillow, all rotting grandeur and stubborn decay, its white pillars stained grey by a century of river fog, its gardens overgrown with ivy and memory and the particular kind of Southern vegetation that grows not toward the sun but toward the past. Eleanor Whitfield lived there alone, in the west wing,...
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