The Golden Compass
The rain fell in thin, cold needles. It struck the wet cobblestones of Harrow’s Lane and vanished instantly. There was no splash. Only the dull, wet thud. Elias stood by the window. He watched the grey water smear the glass. His hand rested on the iron latch. It was cold. It was smooth. It was worn. Inside, the room was silent. The clock on the mantel ticked. The sound was loud. It was sharp....
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