The Distant Clue
The gas lamps of the foundry district had not yet extinguished their amber vigil when the celebration reached its zenith, a cacophony of clinking crystal and raucous laughter that seemed to vibrate against the very bones of the building. Margaret Holloway stood at the periphery of the ballroom, her fingers resting lightly on the cold brass railing of the mezzanine, watching the whirl of skirts...
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