The Golden Quest
The dust in the reading room did not float; it hung, a suspended galaxy of particulate matter that seemed to thicken the air into something viscous and cold. I sat at the long oak table, the grain of the wood worn smooth by a century of elbows and ink-stained fingers, and I watched the motes drift through the single beam of afternoon light that pierced the high, barred window. It was 1892, and...
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