The Pale Verdict
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air of Harrow’s End, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of Thomas Vane’s coat and settled into the marrow of his bones. He stood at the window of the small, rented room above the general store, watching the village square where the wet cobblestones reflected the dull, amber glow of the streetlamps. It was a quiet town, the kind of place...
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