I was nineteen when I started working at the Winterbourne house, and I was the kind of boy they hired when nobody else would do the work. Sweeping floors, carrying coal, washing dishes. The kind of work that makes you invisible.
I was invisible for three years. Then on a night in November, I saw something that made me very visible in my own mind, even though nobody ever asked me to tell the story. The storm that night was the worst I'd seen in Boston. The wind was howling through the corridors like a living thing, and the rain was hitting the windows hard enough to rattle the glass. I was in the kitchen, helping Mrs....
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