The Golden Cellar
The air in the subterranean vault was not merely cold, but heavy with the metallic tang of ozone and the faint, sickly sweetness of decaying paper, a atmosphere that seemed to press against the eardrums of Arthur Penhaligon, who stood there with the rigidity of a man holding his breath beneath a wave that had not yet broken, watching as the great brass gears of the memory loom turned with a...
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