The Wistful Dinner
The stone gate of the Abbey of Saint Jude, which had stood for four hundred years as a silent sentinel over the valley of the River Ouse, did not fall in a single thunderous crash, nor did it crumble under the weight of a single catastrophic storm, but rather it began to dissolve, grain by grain, mortar by mortar, into a fine, grey dust that settled upon the shoulders of Thomas Bradshaw like...
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