The Pale Verdict
The air in the grand dining hall of the Whitmore Estate smelled of roasted lamb and stale regret, a thick, cloying scent that hung in the high-vaulted ceiling like a heavy, invisible shroud that no amount of open windows could dislodge because the cold November air outside had long since ceased to be a relief and had become merely another form of confinement that pressed against the glass panes...
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