The Golden Greenhouse
The skin of the library, that vast and breathing expanse of oak and mahogany that had sheltered the mind of Arthur Pendelton for four decades, was beginning to flake, not with the dramatic peeling of varnish under the sun, but with the slow, insidious detachment of dead cells from the living body, a process so gradual that only in the late afternoon light, when the dust motes danced in the...
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