The Distant Summer
The air in the conservatory was thick with the scent of overripe peaches and the metallic tang of old varnish, a heavy, cloying perfume that seemed to settle into the pores of the skin and refuse to leave, a testament to the stagnant heat of a July afternoon that had been stretching out for days without the mercy of a breeze or the promise of rain. Arthur Pendelton sat in the corner of the...
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