The Golden Farce
The air in the Grand Hall of the City Police Station did not smell of the damp, coal-choked streets outside, but of beeswax, old paper, and the metallic, cold scent of authority that seemed to seep from the very walls, a pervasive, almost supernatural weight that pressed against the temples of every man and woman who dared to breathe within its confines, a heavy, golden haze that obscured the...
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