The Pale Verdict
The courtroom had been built pale. Not white—that would have been a lie, white implying cleanliness, implying that something had been washed. This was the pallor of limestone and old paper, the colour of bone left in summer rain. It was the colour of justice when justice forgets itself. Arthur Pembroke sat in the third row, counting the cracks in the ceiling plaster the way his father had...
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