Blackwood Manor, West Yorkshire. November 1917.
I write this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters and weeps wax onto the mahogany desk, and I am twenty-eight years old, though thirty-nine years have passed since I first learned what I had become. The walls of this room are lined with portraits. Seven of them. Seven women. Seven faces that smiled at me, loved me, trusted me, and then turned to dust while my face remained unchanged....
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