The Distant Ghost
Vane. The name was spat out, not called, by the secretary, a woman with ink-stained fingers and eyes that did not blink. She pointed a pen at the door. Elias Vane did not look at her. He looked at the door, which was mahogany, heavy, and slightly ajar. He pushed it open with his shoulder, the wood groaning under the weight of his cheap overcoat. The office smelled of coal smoke, old paper, and...
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