The Distant Affair
The ink was still wet on the ledger when the mist curled around the bottom of the page, cold and damp as a dead fish. Arthur Vane did not look up. He was thirty years old, and his hands, which had once been steady enough to transcribe the minutes of the Board of Directors without a single tremor, now shook with the specific, grinding fatigue of a man who has been holding his breath for six...
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