The Faded Guest
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray drizzle that soaked into the wool of coats and the marrow of bones, turning the cobblestones into slick, black mirrors that reflected the soot-stained facades of the textile mills and the low, bruised sky above. Arthur Penhaligon, a man of forty-five whose face had begun to map the topography of his own exhaustion,...
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