The Gentleman's Last Gamble
ACT I The wind across the Yorkshire moors did not blow so much as it howled, a ceaseless, hollow sound that seemed to rise from the earth itself. Arthur Pendelton walked into it with the slack-jawed indifference of a man who had long since stopped feeling its bite. He was twenty-four, though the gauntness of his face and the watery grey of his eyes made him look thirty years older. His boots...
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