The Wistful Saga
The banquet hall of the Ironclad Hotel, a sprawling Victorian relic of mahogany and brass that dominated the center of Ashworth, smelled of roasted pheasant, stale cigar smoke, and the underlying, metallic tang of old money. It was a night of excess, a celebration for the Mayor, a man whose face was as round and unyielding as a river stone, and his wife, a woman who wore diamonds like armor....
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