The Pale Mist
Act I Giovanni Orsini, thirty-four, stood in the grey damp of the Naples backstreet, where laundry overhead snapped like the wake-up whistle of a camp, a sound that had long since replaced the rooster’s crow in this district. I wanted to clear my name, or rather, Elena’s, for the accusation that hung over us like a landslide scar on the terrace country above: the murder of Councilman Ferrante,...
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