The Wistful Incense
The river was the only honest thing left in the world, a grey, muscular snake that refused to be straightened out by the surveyors’ lines. It wound through the valley like a thought that would not be finished, indifferent to the concrete bridges arching over its back, indifferent to the trucks that shook its banks into submission. For Elias Thorne, the water was not scenery; it was a witness....
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