The Wistful Dinner
The iron gate of the Whitehall Institute had not been opened for a visitor in three years, yet the sound of the carriage wheels grinding against the cobblestones seemed to split the silence of the October afternoon like a crack in porcelain. Margaret Holloway stood at the top of the long, slate staircase, her fingers gripping the cold iron railing until her knuckles turned the color of old...
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