The Golden Myth
The banquet hall of the Millward Foundry smelled of roasted beef, stale beer, and the metallic tang of iron filings that seemed to have seeped into the very walls during the long, soot-heavy summers of my childhood, and as I sat at the long oak table with my hands folded in my lap, watching my father lift the heavy crystal decanter to pour the amber liquid into the goblets of the foremen and...
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