The Heat Within the Iron
Erasmus Holt stood at the window of his Fifth Avenue mansion and watched the gas lamps gutter along the street below, each flame a small yellow tooth biting at the dark. It was the winter of 1887, and he had not slept more than three hours in as many weeks. The pressure had been building for sixty-two years, and he could feel it now like steam in a closed boiler, the seams of him straining...
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