The Faded Frequency
The rain in Seattle did not wash things clean, it only made the grime slicker, turning the grey concrete of the Pike Place market into a mirror that reflected nothing but the distorted, weeping faces of the people who walked over it, and it was there, standing on the wet cobblestones with his collar turned up against the damp chill that seemed to seep into his very bones, that Arthur Penhaligon...
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