The Boiling Point of Silence
The pressure inside Whitmore Manor had been building for years, though no one had named it. Pressure, Amelia Whitmore understood, was not a dramatic force. It was the slow accumulation of small weights: her fathers sherry glass refilled at eleven in the morning, the Cooks weekly account book showing fewer and fewer entries, the way the maids looked at her now as if she were a piece of furniture...
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