The Third Bride of Blackwood
The fog rolled in off the Hooghly River like a living thing, swallowing the road to Blackwood Manor stone by stone. Clara Ashworth pressed her face against the carriage window and watched the Bengali countryside dissolve into gray. She was twenty-two years old, and she had never felt more like a corpse being transported to its final resting place. Uncle Harrington had arranged the marriage with...
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