The Faded Paradox
The train moved through the fog with the sluggish, mournful persistence of a dying animal, its iron wheels grinding against the rails in a rhythm that Edmund Vane had spent forty years learning to ignore, but which now, with the gray mist clinging to the windowpane like wet wool, sounded like the ticking of a clock counting down to nothing. He sat in the corner of the first-class compartment,...
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