By ten o'clock that evening, the predicted winter blizzard struck the Berkshire hills with full, howling fury. Gale-force winds roared off the crest of Mount Greylock, whipping the falling snow into blinding white sheets that obliterated the valley below. Outside Hawthorne Manor, towering hemlocks groaned under the weight of ice and snow, their branches tossing wildly against the leaden sky, but inside the sixty-room limestone fortress, the two-foot-thick walls held…
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