The candlelight flickered across Eleanor's face as she sat at the piano, her fingers tracing the ...
The candlelight flickered across Eleanor's face as she sat at the piano, her fingers tracing the same measures for the third time. The music was Chopin, or something close to it—her mother had insisted on lessons, on discipline, on the kind of refinement that made Whitmore daughters marriageable. But Eleanor's mind was elsewhere. It was at the charity gala, three nights ago, where she had seen...
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