The Golden Compass
The roof of the old library came down in a single, deafening exhale. It was not a dramatic collapse, not the shattering of glass and splintering of beams that one might see in a film. It was a sigh. A long, tired exhalation of dry rot and tired iron that simply gave up the fight. Dust billowed out like a grey ghost, settling over the streets of Harrowgate, covering the parked cars, the wet...
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