The Distant Whispers
The rain against the windowpane of the old manor house, a rhythmic drumming that had persisted for three days without letup, seemed to synchronize with the heavy, labored breathing of Marcus Thorne as he stood in the center of the grand hall, his back rigid against the mahogany wall, his hands hanging limp at his sides like dead branches, while his sister, Eleanor, sat on the velvet settee with...
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