The Golden Compass
The rain in the district of Colloway did not fall so much as it hung, a wet, suffocating curtain that blurred the gaslight into halos of sickly yellow. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the doorway of the old textile mill, his back to the darkening street, while the argument inside him mirrored the storm outside. He was a man who had spent forty years chasing the truth through the labyrinthine alleys of...
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