The Golden Compass
The rain did not fall. It hung. "Is he coming?" "Who?" "The Judge." Margaret looked at the window. The glass was black. The world outside was a smear of grey mud and dead leaves. She did not answer. She held the cup. The tea was cold. It had been cold for hours. The steam had long since vanished, taking the warmth with it. "He is late," she said. "Always late," Thomas said. He sat in the...
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