The Wistful Silence
The banquet hall of the Whitmore & Sons Textile Mill was a cavern of polished oak and heavy velvet, a place where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, spilled wine, and the particular, cloying perfume of the lilies that lined the entrance in rows that seemed to stretch out into an infinite, smoky distance, a visual echo of the endless rows of looms that churned away in the...
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