A decade in cask turns it the color of Miss Havisham's rotting wedding cake. Nutty, caramel, faded grandeur. Sip it by candlelight with the clocks stopped.
Dry, saline, and hazelnut-tinged, it tastes of damp stone and old houses. An affordable bottle with Victorian bones, like Pip's great expectations themselves.
Marsh mists, a jilted bride among stopped clocks, and a boy learning that fortune and worth are different things. Dickens at his most haunted and humane.
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