The Golden Mirror
The rain had been falling on the roof of the Holloway house for three days straight, a relentless, gray drumming that seemed to seep into the very foundation of the Victorian structure, pooling in the cellar and turning the air into a thick, damp soup that tasted of mildew and old paper, and it was in this oppressive atmosphere, amidst the ticking of a dozen out-of-sync clocks, that Margaret...
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