The Weeping Stone of York
I The wind off the moors carried coal dust and something colder. Clara Whitmore pulled her wool coat tighter and pushed through the plastic strips hanging where a door should have been. Inside, warmth hit her like a wall. The place was small—four tables, a counter, a stove that hissed when the rain met the grates. Behind the counter stood a man who looked at her the way a stray dog looks at a...
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