The Wistful Campus
The rain had not stopped in three days, turning the gravel paths of St. Jude’s College into a slick, grey sludge that reflected the grimy windows of the administration block. Arthur Penhaligon stood by the window of his office on the third floor, watching the water drip from the eaves in a steady, rhythmic percussion. He was a man of forty-five, though the recent weeks had carved new lines into...
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