The Golden Farce
The fog in Millhaven did not lift so much as it dissolved, a slow, sickly exhalation of the industrial age that clung to the cobblestones and the soot-blackened brickwork of the textile mills, a pervasive gray mist that seemed to possess a physical weight, pressing down upon the shoulders of anyone foolish enough to walk the main thoroughfare at that hour when the shift whistle had just cut...
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