The Golden Suspect
The rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the sky, a thin, gray membrane that stretched over the cobblestones of Harrowgate until the street became a mirror of its own decay, reflecting the soot-streaked faces of the men who stood in the doorway of the Blackwood Arms with their collars turned up against a chill that seemed to have no source other than the collective exhaustion of a...
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