The Distant Affair
The glove was warm when Eleanor Vane took it from the drawer, though the office had been cold since the coal fire burned low. It was Julian’s glove, black leather, soft as a closed mouth, and it had no right to be warm. She held it for a moment in her palm, feeling the shape of fingers that had not touched the world in two winters. On the desk before her lay a letter from the Society, sealed in...
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