The Distant Metropolis
The river is running backward again, Elias, and you are going to stop pretending you don’t see it. Arthur Vane did not look up from the ledger, but the sound of the water, a low, rhythmic thrumming that vibrated through the floorboards of the mill office, made his hands tremble against the cold brass pen holder. It was November, 1912, and the air in the room was thick with the smell of wet wool...
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