The Golden Compass
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a wet, grey curtain that smeared the windows of the high court into blurs of mud and memory, and you stood there with your back to the stone wall, the cold seeping through the wool of your tunic until it settled in the marrow of your bones, a chill that no fire could ever quite reach, because you were not merely cold but hollowed out, scraped clean by...
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