The Pale Tower
The smell of roasting pork and burnt sugar hung in the air of the Mason Hall, thick enough to taste, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat and made it hard to breathe, while Mrs. Gable stood at the head of the long wooden table, her face flushed with a triumph that looked almost like pain, raising a glass of cloudy cider to the chandelier that flickered above us, and I sat...
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