The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it was driven against the stone walls of the old textile mill by a wind that seemed to possess a malice of its own, a cold, wet breath that snuffed out the tallow candles one by one in the cramped offices until only the singular, sputtering flame of the hearth remained, casting long, distorted shadows of the men who huddled around it, their breath forming clouds...
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