The Wistful Saga
The champagne corks, three of them, lay on the kitchen floor like spent cartridges, their foil wrappers twisted into tight, rust-colored knots that Clara had failed to clean up. The apartment, a cramped two-bedroom on the fourth floor of a brick walk-up in Boston, hummed with a low, electric dread that seemed to vibrate through the thin plaster walls. She stood by the window, her fingers...
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