The Golden Master
You have made a career out of misunderstanding my work, Clara, and I will not have you continue that error in my own home. The words hung in the air of the kitchen, sharp and brittle as the porcelain on the shelf, while she stood by the sink, her hands submerged in the suds, watching the water swirl around her wrists with a slow, indifferent rhythm. I was forty-two years old, a senior archivist...
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