The Pale Circus
"You are a ghost, Thomas, and ghosts do not bleed," the Inspector said, his voice a dry rasp that seemed to scrape against the very air of the room, a sound like the grinding of millstones in a long-abandoned factory where the gears had finally rusted into a permanent, unyielding shape. We were standing in the vast, echoing atrium of the Department of Public Order, a cathedral of iron and glass...
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