The Wistful Silence
The road to Harrow’s End was not so much a path as a suggestion of one, a pale ribbon of crushed gravel and dead leaves that wound its way up through the dense, suffocating chestnut groves until it vanished into the perpetual gray mist that hung over the valley floor, a mist so thick and cold that it seemed to have weight, pressing against the windows of the rented sedan as if trying to force...
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