The Golden Harbor
The rain in London does not wash things clean. It merely makes the grime slicker, more treacherous underfoot. I had come to the city for the archive, for the papers of Julian Thorne, the disgraced sociologist of the 1920s. I was a junior lecturer at a small university in the Midwest, a place where the air smelled of old paper and quiet desperation. My reputation was small, my tenure precarious,...
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