The Faded Paradox
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey curtain that turned the heather into a bruised and shivering mass of violet and brown, and in the center of this wet and indifferent world stood the figure of Arthur Penhaligon, his boots sinking into the mud with a slow, sucking sound that seemed to echo not off the stones but from the hollows of his own chest, for he was a man who...
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