The Pale Exile
The bread was stale. It had been stale for three days. Thomas Ashworth sat by the dying fire. His hands were rough. The knuckles were swollen. He broke a piece of the loaf. The crust crumbled. It fell onto his wool tunic. He did not wipe it off. He chewed. The taste was dust. It was dry. It was old. Outside, the wind howled. The moor was black. The mist rolled in from the sea. It clung to the...
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