When the Pressure Gauge Shatters
August Sterling sat at his desk on the forty-seventh floor of the Sterling Building on Wall Street and watched his own hand tremble. It was a small tremor, barely visible, the kind of thing a man could ignore if he chose to. He had been ignoring it for three months. The hand belonged to a man who was fifty-eight years old and worth one hundred and forty million dollars, which in the spring of...
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