The Distant Affair
The house on the ridge had been waiting for Margaret Holloway for forty years, a skeletal thing of rotting pine and peeling white clapboard that stood like a broken tooth against the grey, bruised sky, and she stood now on the cracked concrete of the front porch, her hand hovering over the doorknob, trembling not from the biting wind that swept down from the mountains but from the sheer,...
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