The Wistful Campus
The banquet hall of the University of St. Jude’s smelled of roasted pheasant, stale beeswax, and the particular, metallic scent of old stone sweating in the humid July air, a scent that clung to the hem of my gown like a ghost refusing to let go, and I stood there in the shadow of the marble column, watching the Dean lift his glass, his voice booming out like a cannon shot that shattered the...
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