The Pale Path
The glove was black. It was leather. It fit my hand as if it had grown there. I wore it to the factory. I wore it to the dinner. I wore it to the mirror. The leather was soft. It was cold. It was mine. My name is Thomas Bradshaw. I am a man of cloth. I make suits for men who do not make things. They are powerful men. They sit in high rooms. They look down. I look up. I measure their shoulders....
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