The Golden Quest
The mud of Whitechapel had a way of finding the seams of a man’s boots, and by the time the magistrate’s clerk finished reading the charge of insubordination, Elias Thorne’s toes were numb and his dignity was thinner than the paper in the clerk’s hand. It was 1892, and the winter air bit at the exposed skin of his neck where his collar had been torn away in the scuffle, a scuffle that had...
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