The Pale Tower
The grey wool of the sweater had worn thin at the elbows, revealing the pale, translucent skin beneath like a map of veins, and it was this specific, intimate exposure that made Arthur Penhaligon feel a strange, vibrating proximity to the fabric, as if the wool were not merely clothing but a second skin that breathed in tandem with his own lungs, drawing in the stale, recycled air of the...
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