On a quiet Sunday morning in late November, the first gentle snowfall of the season began to dust the Berkshire mountains, blanketing Hawthorne Manor in a mantle of pure, crystalline white. In the sunlit conservatory, where the woodstove glowed warmly and the scent of blooming jasmine filled the air, Claire stood by the tall glass doors looking out over the frosted valley. Her heart was beating with an overwhelming, sacred…
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