The Golden Farce
The morning light fell through the high, barred windows of the county jail in Ashford not as a gift of warmth but as a cold, impartial auditor, laying out the dust motes dancing in the stagnant air like tiny, suspended ghosts of a life that had slipped away from Thomas Bradshaw. He sat on the thin mattress in the corner of his cell, his hands resting in his lap, fingers interlaced so tightly...
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