The Distant Joke
The gaslight in the grand hall of the Whitmore Estate hums a low, electric thrum that you feel in your teeth more than you hear. It is a sound of industry, of heat, of the great iron lungs of the factory pumping breath into the aristocracy’s lungs. You stand at the edge of the banquet table, a place of honor reserved for the quiet ones, the ones who keep the books balanced and the secrets...
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