The Golden Visit
There was a door at the end of Piers Lane that nobody used. Not because it was locked—though it was, with a brass keyhole that had accumulated the particular patina of a key that stopped being turned—and not because it led nowhere. The key was simply a habit, a small ritual of self-denial that had outlived its original purpose. Henry Ashworth-Cross had lived at number 47 for eleven years. He...
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