The Pale Circus
"Is it the noise, or is it the way they look at you?" Margaret didn’t answer immediately. She adjusted the cuff of her grey blazer, a gesture so practiced it had become reflexive, like checking a pulse. Outside the glass walls of the municipal planning office, the rain lashed against the pavement in sheets of grey static. Inside, the air was recycled, sterile, and smelled faintly of burnt...
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