The Golden Compass
The fog rolled in from the harbor, thick and gray as wet wool. It swallowed the spires of the cathedral and the iron gates of the palace. Inside, the air was dry, smelling of old paper and beeswax. Colonel Arthur Penhaligon sat in the high-backed chair, his hands folded on the armrests. He waited. The clock on the mantel ticked. It was a loud sound, a mechanical heartbeat in the silence. He was...
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