The Wistful Campus
The ledger lay open on the mahogany desk, its pages yellowed and brittle, the ink faded to a brown that looked less like writing and more like dried blood. I turned the page, the sound of the paper tearing softly against the silence of the room, and there it was, the figure that had brought me to this crumbling estate: five thousand pounds, owed by Julian Thorne to the Blackwood estate. I...
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