The Distant Affair
The letter from Arthur Vane’s solicitors lay on my workbench, the paper thick and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the lemon polish they used in their offices. It was a polite refusal, of course, couched in the language of property rights and historical preservation, but the intent was clear: I was to stay out of the cellar where Margot lay, and I was to stop calling it "our" cellar. I signed...
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