The Wistful Saga
The coal dust had settled into a fine, grey silt across the mahogany table, a particulate suspension that caught the gaslight in the way that only suspended solids do, turning the air into a shimmering, toxic haze that hung heavy over the plates of roasted pheasant and the silverware which, for all its polish, could not scrub away the moral grime of the room. It was a feast of sorts, or at...
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