THE GIRL WHO DIDN'T DANCE
The pearl necklace lay at the bottom of Clara Donovan's drawer, tucked beneath a sweater that smelled faintly of lavender and radiator heat. Henry had bought it at a market on Erie Street—costume pearls, the kind that gleamed like real ones in a shop window but felt like glass the moment you held them. He had paid twelve cents. It was, he had told himself, the perfect price for the perfect...
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