The Golden Master
The rain against the high, grimy windows of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Chronically Insane did not fall so much as it was driven, a relentless, gray needle stitching the sky to the earth in a seam that would never hold, and inside the long, echoing corridor of the East Wing, Arthur Penhaligon walked with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man carrying a secret so dense it had begun to calcify...
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