The Golden Compass

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2026-08-17 23:40:10 -

The house stood at the end of the lane. It was old. Stone walls. Slate roof. The ivy climbed high. It reached the chimneys. It choked the windows. The air smelled of damp earth. It smelled of decay. Margaret Holloway walked toward it. She carried a notebook. It was small. Leather bound. Her fingers were cold. The wind bit. It did not stop. She did not stop. Margaret was a detective. Not of...

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