The Golden Farce
The house stood at the end of the lane like a broken tooth, its white siding peeling in long, sunburned strips that revealed the dark wood beneath, a slow, ugly hemorrhage of material. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old varnish and the faint, metallic tang of dust that had settled on every surface for decades. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the wingback chair by the window, his hands...
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