The Golden Compass
The bridge had collapsed not with a roar but with a sigh, a long, exhalatory groan of steel surrendering to the river’s patient hunger, leaving the two travelers stranded on the north bank where the fog lay thick as wool and the air tasted of rust and old rain. Thomas Bradshaw stood with his back to the water, his hands trembling not from the cold which was certainly biting but from the sudden,...
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