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Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

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but he left the signature page on the desk.

The scent of damp peat moss from my work shoes drifted through the sunroom as the evening light turned gray over Oak Creek. Donald handed me a cup of chamomile tea, his face shadowed in the twilight.

“Robert stopped by the house after you left the office,” Donald said.

“Well now, he has always had a habit of continue reading …

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