A collector of novel Christmas cards receives a virtually anonymous, disgustingly plain one in the mail, which Henry determines is a mask for something more sinister.
This Black Widowers tale is reasonably good. It has a big of a “New York” flavor for me, somehow—there is, as in some of the other stories, a sense of what it’s like to live in a really big city with all kinds of service staff surrounding you at all times, although I suppose this story could be rewritten to take place in the suburbs without any trouble. Anyway, it’s nice, if not fantastic.
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