The Golden Echoes
The Golden Echoes were not golden at all—this was the first truth Arthur Penhaligon learned, though not until the autumn of his forty-seventh year had he shouldered itself upon him like a stranger's coat, heavy and ill-fitting and smelling faintly of the sea. He had come to Penzance on an October morning that arrived wrapped in mist so thick you could have carved it with a knife. The harbour...
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