The Gilded Cage of Greed
The rain in London did not fall; it seeped. It seeped into the brickwork of the Penhaligon estate, turning the once-proud limestone into a bruised, weeping grey. Arthur Penhaligon stood by the window of his study, his fingers tracing the edge of a velvet-lined case. He was a man of collections—rare beetles from the Congo, pressed ferns from the Andes—but his latest acquisition was a secret that...
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