The Golden Farce
The rain tapped against the glass. It was a steady, rhythmic drumming. "You're late, Thomas." The voice came from the shadows of the room. It was low. It was rough. Like gravel under a boot. Thomas Ashworth sat in the chair. He did not move. His hands rested on his knees. They were still. They were strong. The kind of hands that had held a rifle in the mud of the Somme. The kind of hands that...
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