The Golden Downtown
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the high stone walls of the Bastille, turning the cobblestones into slick, treacherous mirrors that reflected the weary, hollow faces of the men who walked them. Thomas Bradshaw moved through this aqueous gloom with the rigid, mechanical precision of a man whose soul had been slowly drained by the relentless,...
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