The afternoon rain had cleared by four o'clock, leaving the Manhattan skyline bathed in a crisp, golden autumnal light that slanted through the monumental glass walls of Dante Moretti’s private library. Outside, the yellowing canopies of Central Park resembled an ocean of liquid gold, but inside the two-story sanctuary of ebony and marble, the world had narrowed to the scratch of graphite against vellum and the rhythmic hum of a…
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