The Golden Echoes
The shrapnel had already torn through the left flank of the oak tree before Thomas Whitmore even registered the sound of the cannonade, a dull, thunderous crack that seemed to originate not from the distant ridge where the enemy lines were entrenched, but from the very marrow of his own bones, as if the earth itself were trying to eject him, this insignificant clerk who had wandered so far from...
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