The Pale Verdict
The rain fell on the cobblestones of Harrowgate like a fine grey ash. Elias Vane adjusted his collar. The fabric was thin. It had been thin for years. A single layer of linen, worn soft by friction against his neck. It held no heat. It offered no protection. He looked down at his hand. The cuff frayed. A thread pulled loose. He watched it hang. He arrived at the house at dusk. The gates were...
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