The Pale Verdict
The fog rolled in off the harbor each morning, thick and grey, swallowing the iron skeletons of the crane yards until only the rhythmic clanking of the steam hammers remained. It was a sound that had defined the life of Arthur Penhaligon for forty years, a metronome beating out the days of his service at the St. Jude’s Orphanage for the Mechanically Inclined. The institution stood on a cliff...
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