The Golden Compass
The iron gate of the St. Jude’s orphanage did not creak. It groaned, a low, tectonic shudder that vibrated through the soles of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots and up the calcified architecture of his spine. Outside, the fog pressed against the high windows like a blind, hungry animal. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of boiled cabbage, wet wool, and the metallic tang of old blood....
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