The Distant Temple
The fog that rolled in from the harbor did not merely obscure the streets of the old port town; it swallowed them whole, a thick, grey wool that suffocated the gas lamps until they became mere, trembling suggestions of light rather than sources of illumination, and it was into this damp, heavy silence that Thomas Bradshaw walked, his boots sinking into the mud with a rhythmic, wet thud that...
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