The Wistful Atlas
The rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the sky, a relentless, grey siphoning that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into a mirror of broken reflections, and in the window of the third-floor flat, Arthur Penhaligon stood with his back to the door, watching the street below with the heavy, unblinking gaze of a man who had forgotten how to blink, while the clock on the...
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