The Faded Portrait
The rain did not fall so much as it was pushed down from the low, bruised sky, a relentless gray sheet that blurred the distinction between the road and the mud, a slurry that coated the wheels of the carriage in a thick, sucking paste that seemed to have a will of its own, a desire to halt them, to hold them in the boggy ditch where the heather grew wild and black against the iron fog that...
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