The Golden Mirror
The velvet ribbon, dyed the precise ochre of autumn leaves before they hit the frost, had been tied around the neck of the mannequin in the window of Harrowgate’s for three days, and no one had moved it, not even when the rain turned the cobblestones of St. James’s Lane into a slick, dark mirror that reflected the gas lamps in trembling, broken shards of light. Arthur Penhaligon stood on the...
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