The Distant Joke
The ivy had strangled the east window of the manor, a green throat closing around the glass, but inside, Julian Thorne sat alone in the vast, echoing silence of the library. He was a man of fifty winters, his hair the color of ash, his hands trembling with a palsy that he blamed on the cold, though the fire roared behind him. He was an exile in his own house, a wanderer who had never left the...
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