The walls were covered in paper that might once have been blue and white stripe, but which time and moisture had turned murky gray, spotted and peeling in places. Faded scenes from Hans Christian Andersen hung along one side: the brave tin soldier atop his fire, the pretty girl in red shoes, the little mermaid weeping for her lost past. It smelled musty, of ghostly children and long-settled dust. Vaguely alive.
-Kate Morton
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