The Wistful Incense
The champagne flute in Arthur’s hand was cold, colder than the air in the ballroom which smelled of stale perfume and industrial floor wax, and he watched the Director’s mouth move, the words arriving a half-second late, like a signal bouncing off a distant wall. "Arthur, your models for the Q3 liability projection are... interesting," the Director said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth...
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