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Weekly Contest #27
The ancestral home loomed up, impassive against the darkening sky. Inside, Sir Frederick was in the library near a crackling fire, busy at his desk. It had been his father's, and was made of gleaming mahogany with cubbyholes and secret drawers. Frederick remembered his father sitting at this very desk with his pots of glue and ink restoring tattered old books. Something he could never understand. He picked up a glue pot filled with white powder and sniffed it. The shelves above him were filled with books and documents that his ance...
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