The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old town into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gaslight in broken, shivering shards, and inside the dimly lit dining room of the Hotel Continental, Thomas Bradshaw sat alone at a table near the window, his hands resting flat on the linen tablecloth, his knuckles white, his breathing...
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