The Wistful Mountain
The air in the grand salon of the Whitmore estate hung thick with the scent of beeswax and stale tobacco, a suffocating perfume that seemed to coat the lungs of every guest present at the annual industrialist’s gala, where the chandeliers blazed with an electric light that was not yet quite warm but was certainly bright enough to expose every wrinkle in the silk gowns and every shadow in the...
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