The Distant Affair
The air in the hall of the old manor did not smell of decay, as one might expect of a place left to the slow erosion of time and neglect, but rather of a heavy, cloying sweetness, like over-ripe pears left too long in a fruit bowl, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be washed away by the cold drafts that crept through the shattered windowpanes. Margaret Holloway stood...
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