The Last Dance at the Halo
I Paris in 1925 was a city of ghosts. Not the kind that rattled chains and moaned in attics—the real kind. The ghosts of men who had come home from the Marne with missing limbs and missing minds, the ghosts of men who had never come home at all, the ghosts of every promise made and broken in the name of glory and duty and the stupid, beautiful, terrible thing called love. Daisy Vaneridge sat at...
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