The Golden Myth
The gaslight in your study hums with a low, electric sickness, casting long, trembling shadows across the mahogany desk where you have arranged the intercepted letters of Clara Thorne. It is November, 1912, and the London fog presses against the windowpanes like a damp, grey hand, but inside, the air is sharp with the smell of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of your own obsession. You are...
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