The Distant Threshold
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet with the smell of rain and iron, a blackened square of paper that seemed to absorb the light from the gas lamps in Professor Arthur Penhaligon’s study, a relic from a time when the air was thick with coal smoke and the silence of the house was not empty but heavy, a physical weight pressing against the walls of the Whitmore estate, a place that...
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