The Golden Song
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that settled into the pores of the skin and the fibers of the wool coat, a persistent dampness that seemed to originate not from the sky but from the very marrow of the house, a house that had stood on the edge of the moor for three centuries, its stone walls thick enough to hold the cold out and the memories in, and in the...
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