Thomas left his card, as a gentleman should, on
the silver tray. Neither his name nor face caused spark of recognition
in the butler, who withdrew silently. The only visitor to Pennsfield
since armistice stared at the sparse décor, pretending he did not feel
the mold slowly eating at the manor and everyone in it.
Eliza
emerged, widow’s weeds exchanged for dove gray, better to hide the lack
of quality. She looked at the visitor with a sad longing, her smile a
memory.
“Liza, love, can you not greet your husband?”
She sighed. “Not until you admit you’re dead, Tommy.”
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