The Wistful Asylum
The Wistful Asylum The letter arrived on a Tuesday, folded into a triangle so precise it might have been pressed in a vice. Margaret Ashworth-Cross turned it over in her hands — pale cream stock, wax seal cracked with a thumbnail, no postage. Her name was written in a hand she had not seen in twenty-three years: J. Penhaligon. She did not open it immediately. She set it on the mantelpiece...
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