The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it was forced into the earth, a gray, relentless sleet that turned the heath into a churning sea of mud and blackthorn. Sir Aldous Vane held his position at the crest of the ridge, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes that vanished almost before they formed. He was not a man given to poetry, nor to the softness of thought, but in this moment, the weight of...
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