The Golden Compass
You wake in a city that smells of coal dust and wet iron, a place where the fog does not merely obscure the streets but devours them, thick as wool and heavy with the soot of ten thousand chimneys. It is not London, though it wears the face of London, nor is it New York, though it beats with the frantic, industrial heart of New York; it is a liminal space, a ghost-town of the nineteenth century...
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