The Pale Letter
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, cold weeping that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into slick mirrors reflecting the gaslight, and it was in this damp, grey twilight that Arthur Penhaligon sat in his study, his hands trembling not from the chill that seeped through the floorboards but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of the letter he held in his ink-stained...
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