The Golden Compass
Thorne, you are late for the count, and the mist is thick enough to chew. The voice of Inspector Halloway cut through the damp air of the watchtower, sharp and bureaucratic, the kind of tone that had been sharpened on the grindstone of twenty years in the border service. I stood there, my boots sinking into the mud that had turned to a slurry overnight, and I felt the weight of my uniform...
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