The Wistful Mountain
The banquet hall of the Ironworks Club smelled of roasted pheasant and stale tobacco, a heavy, suffocating perfume that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the throats of the men who sat around the long mahogany table, their faces illuminated by the flickering gaslights that cast long, trembling shadows against the walls where the portraits of past foremen stared down with eyes that...
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