The Wistful Grid
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, a rectangular island of cream-colored paper surrounded by the dark, polished sea of varnish, and Arthur Penhaligon stared at it with the detached, clinical precision of a man observing a specimen under a microscope, his eyes dry and his hands steady as he traced the perimeter of the envelope in his mind, for he was a detective of the old school, a man who...
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