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10/10/1988
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The Wolf Who Came HomeThe Wolf Who Came HomeThe mine had taken everything from Harry Morrison except his name. His lungs were full of dust that would never leave. His knees had given up ten years ago. His wife had died of the fever in '32 and the cemetery had been full of O's since then—O'Brien, O'Sullivan, O'Connor, all of them marked with a cross and an O for the number of family members buried in plots no bigger...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Butterless MorningThe butter remained wrapped in wax paper on the third shelf of the pantry, where it had been since November. Eleanor Vance did not know this. She never had occasion to visit the Pemberton kitchen, which was precisely the arrangement Arthur preferred. The kitchen was his domain, his laboratory, his confessional. In the mornings, before the house stirred, he would stand at the counter with a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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Testimony of the Cargo ManifestTestimony of the Cargo Manifest I am a piece of paper. I weigh approximately four and a half grams. I am eight and a half inches wide and eleven inches tall. I was manufactured at a paper mill in Poughkeepsie, New York, in the summer of 1954 and shipped to the Harbor Authority supply office on Whitehall Street in a box containing five hundred identical sheets. I was loaded into a typewriter on...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Decadent CosmosLord Alistair Finch had always believed that beauty was the only honest thing in the universe. This belief had served him well during his forty years of deliberate, calculated decadence—filling his orbital palace with art from a hundred worlds, collecting experiences the way other men collected stamps, and cultivating a sensitivity to the aesthetic qualities of everything from the way light...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Harmonic ArkThe party at the penthouse was a blur of champagne and saxophone music, the kind of noise that could drown out the sound of a world ending. Julian stood on the balcony, looking out over the glittering sprawl of 1920s New York. To the rest of the guests, the shimmering aurora borealis that had appeared over the city for three nights was a novelty, a celestial firework show. To Julian, it was a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Golden ExchangeThe ticker tape never stopped talking. That was the first thing Vincent Moretti learned on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange: the machine had opinions, and they came in the form of punched paper ribbons that fell like confetti from the ceiling of a cathedral built for a new god. He was nineteen, Irish-Italian from Hester Street, with ink on his fingers and a photographic memory that made...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE PATIENT FROM BELOWDr. Arthur Voss could not remember how he had arrived at the hospital. This was not, strictly speaking, true. He remembered driving through Vienna on a February evening in 1896, the gas lamps casting amber pools on the wet cobblestones, the carriages bouncing over puddles that reflected the windows of the cafés where men sat drinking brandy and talking about the future of the Balkans. He...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Shore of EntropyACT ONE: THE TIDE Ellis stood on the shore and watched the tide. It was not a dramatic tide, no crashing waves, no foaming crests, no cinematic fury. It was a simple, rhythmic rise and fall, the kind of tide that had been rising and falling along this coast for a hundred million years before men decided it needed a name and would continue to rise and fall a hundred million years after men had...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Glass Ceiling(Act I: The Spark) The air in the 50th-floor boardroom was filtered, scentless, and cold, designed to make the people inside feel like gods above the clouds. Leo sat at the end of the table, his presence tolerated but not welcomed, a ghost in a charcoal suit. He was the son of a man who had once owned this building before a "strategic restructuring" by the board had left him bankrupt and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Pattern in the MindThe first case was elegant. That was the first thing I noticed, and perhaps the first mistake I made. Crime scenes are rarely elegant. They are messy and desperate and human in the way that a scream is human or a broken bottle is human. But the scene on East Eighty-seventh Street was composed. The body was positioned with intention. The blood was arranged in patterns that my trained eye...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Long Island SanatoriumThe jazz played from a gramophone in the corner of the newsroom, a thin reedy sound that barely competed with the clatter of typewriters and the murmur of a hundred men deciding what the world should think. I sat at my desk with a cigarette burning down between my fingers and stared at the telegram on the paper in front of me. Eileen Foster, it said. Last seen: Oakcliff Sanatorium, Long Island....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 10 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Starlight CorridorACT I: THE AWAKENING The jazz poured from the speakeasy on Forty-second Street like water from a broken dam, and Thomas Callahan stood on the corner, listening to it the way a starving man listens to the smell of bread. He was twenty-four, Irish on his father's side, poor on both, and possessed of a mind that saw patterns where other men saw only chaos. Three years earlier, Thomas had arrived...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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