The Golden Suspect
The wind off the moor did not howl; it sighed, a long, ragged exhalation that seemed to strip the color from the heather and the stone. In the valley of the Ashes, where the mist clung to the earth like a burial shroud, there walked a figure who was not quite of this world. He was called Silas, though he had no surname, for surnames belong to those who own land, and Silas owned only his shadow....
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