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2026-08-14 11:59:00 -

THE GOLDEN FARCE

I The house on Harrow Lane had always smelled of beeswax and something older, something that refused to be named. Margaret Vane moved through its rooms like a ghost in her own life, touching the spines of books she would never read, running her fingers along the mantelpiece where her husband\'s photograph had once rested before she asked him to remove it. He had not understood the request....

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