The Pale Tower
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray sleet that turned the cobblestones into slick mirrors reflecting the dim, jaundiced gaslights of the main street, where the air always tasted of wet wool and old pennies, and it was into this damp, indifferent world that Constable Elias Thorne stepped each morning, his heavy leather boots squelching against the mud...
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