The Sower of New Worlds
I met the man who would take me beyond the edge of everything in a bar in Greenwich Village, and he was drinking champagne out of a beer mug, which was the kind of absurd thing that happened all the time in 1923 and no one thought anything of. His name was Silas Thorne, and he wore a suit the colour of weak tea and spoke with the soft, careful accent of a man who had learned that the wrong word...
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