The Golden Farce
The letter lay on the mahogany desk, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and regret. It was a denial of pension, signed by Lord Vane, citing my "unstable history" and a "lack of requisite service." I read it twice, the words blurring as the afternoon light slanted through the high windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air. My wife, Clara, needed the money for her surgery, a...
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