The Golden Compass
The rain on the cobblestones of the old quarter did not wash the city clean; it merely deepened the grime, turning the grey dust into a slick, black sludge that clung to the soles of your boots and the hems of your coat. You walked with a heavy step, the leather satchel against your hip knocking a dull, rhythmic thud against the rhythm of the street. You were a man of letters, a binder of...
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