The townhouse in Bloomsbury was the colour of old teeth.
Elinor Vane stood on the doorstep and looked up at the four stories of brick that had belonged to her father for thirty-seven years and now belonged, by some legal technicality that made her laugh out loud, to a distant cousin in Leeds who had never met any of them and would not come to claim it for at least six months. "Four floors," Marianne said, dragging their mother's trunk up the front...
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