The Golden Quest
The heavy oak table in the Whitmore dining room groaned under the weight of silver and porcelain, a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the bones of everyone seated around it. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of gray, industrial evening where the smog from the textile mills down the valley clung to the cobblestones like a wet wool shawl, and the only light came from...
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