The Red Fox of Ashworth Moor
I arrived at Ashworth Manor in the grey light of an October morning, when the Scottish Highlands wore their fog like a shroud. The estate had been in my family's possession for three generations, and now, at twenty-two, I was sent to paint its fading grandeur before the last of the old world crumbled into memory. My father, professor of landscape painting at the Royal Academy, had written only...
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