The Golden Circuit
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, when the rain was falling in sheets that turned the glass into a grey, weeping veil. It was not a postcard, nor a standard envelope, but a heavy, wax-sealed cylinder of pale blue paper that had been rolled tight and bound with a strip of silk. Thomas Whitmore held it in his hands, his fingers trembling not from the cold, but from a sudden, violent awareness of...
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