The Pale Mist
The city of St. Jude’s was a place of gray slates and silent griefs, where the fog rolled in from the harbor each evening like a shroud drawn over the shoulders of the dying. In this atmosphere, where time seemed to pool in the gutters and stagnate in the eyes of the old, Margaret Holloway moved with the careful, deliberate grace of a woman who had learned that movement was a form of apology....
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