The Wistful Letter
"Arthur, stop fidgeting with that pen and look at me." The voice of Mr. Vane cut through the thick, humid air of the library, sharp as a razor against the damp wood. I stood before the oak desk, my hands trembling so violently that the brass fountain pen clattered against the mahogany surface, the sound echoing off the high, vaulted ceiling. It was the fourteenth of November, 1893, and the rain...
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