The Widow of Blackwood
Eleanor Whitfield arrived at Blackwood Manor on a Tuesday in October, carrying a leather portfolio and a trunk of brushes that cost more than her father's annual income. The house stood on a wind-scoured ridge three miles from the nearest village, all pointed turrets and blackened stone, looking less like a dwelling and more like a warning carved in rock. Mr. Ashworth met her at the door. He...
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