The Wistful Letter
The air inside the manor was not merely cold but heavy, a physical substance that seemed to settle in the lungs of the guests like silt in a stagnant river, and Margaret Holloway stood at the center of the grand hall, her spine rigid with a tension that defied the easy, flowing grace expected of a woman of her station, while the chandeliers above swung with a slow, hypnotic cadence that...
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