The Pale Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old quarter into a slick, treacherous mirror where the gas lamps bled their amber light into the puddles until the streets looked as though they were weeping a thick, golden tears, and in this damp, suffocating silence, Elias Thorne sat alone in the high-backed chair by the window of his...
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