The Pale Letter
The kettle screamed on the cast iron stove, a thin, high-pitched wail that cut through the heavy silence of the kitchen. It was a sound that seemed too sharp for the room, too modern for the dust motes dancing in the single beam of afternoon light that fell through the grime-streaked window. Margaret did not move to turn off the gas. She sat at the table, her hands folded tightly in her lap,...
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