The Distant Joke
Thorne, you are bleeding again. The words hang in the damp air of the great hall, sharp and accusing, spoken by the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, who stands in the doorway with a rag in her hand and a look that has not softened in twenty years. You wipe the cut on your thumb with the back of your hand, the skin gritty with limestone dust, and do not answer, because the sound of the house settling...
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