The Distant Affair
The rain had been falling on the slate roof of the Whitmore house for three days, a steady, drumming percussion that seemed to drown out the ticking of the grandfather clocks and the quiet, settling groans of the timber frame as it shrank in the damp. Thomas Whitmore stood by the window in his study, a room that smelled of old paper, pipe tobacco, and the metallic tang of the storm, his hands...
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