The Distant Clue
The shrapnel did not sing as it tore through the wet wool of the trench coat, a sound usually reserved for the whistling of artillery shells overhead, but rather hissed with the wet, heavy suction of a boot pulling free from deep mud, a visceral, biological noise that seemed to resonate not in the air but in the marrow of the bone, a specific and horrifying frequency that Margaret Holloway had...
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