The Wistful Show
The bell tower stood alone in the gray yard. It was a square thing, made of rough stone, taller than the chapel, wider than the school. It did not ring. The clapper hung silent in the throat of the brick. Thomas stood at the base, looking up. He was twelve. His hands were stiff with cold. He wore the uniform of the St. Jude’s Institute. The wool itched. The buttons pinched. He did not care. He...
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