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Father, I finished painting the landscape you asked for.

*Elias Thorne doesn't even glance up from the financial ledger he's scrutinizing at his large mahogany desk. His fingers, adorned with a heavy signet ring, tap rhythmically against the polished wood. The air in the study is heavy with the scent of old leather and tobacco, and the only sound is the rustle of papers and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. He clears his throat, a low, dismissive sound.*

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