The Golden Compass
The rain had not ceased for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the sprawling estate of the Blackwood line into a drowning ship, the water pooling in the cypress-lined driveway until the mud sucked at the tires of the police cruisers with a wet, rhythmic groan that echoed through the hollow chest of the house, where Elias Thorne stood in the center of the grand foyer, his hands...
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