The Golden Compass
The wool of the shawl was thick, matted with the damp chill of the cellar, and it smelled of wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that had seeped into the fibers so deeply over the centuries that it could not be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the hands that owned it had tried to cleanse it in the cold, gray water of the basin in the corner. Margaret sat on the...
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