The Distant Metropolis
The crystal chandeliers of the Ashworth estate did not merely reflect the candlelight; they seemed to hoard it, casting a fractured, amber glow over the long mahogany table where forty-year-old Arthur Vane sat in a state of profound, vibrating exhaustion. The air in the dining room was thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the heavier, metallic tang of impending bankruptcy, a smell that...
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