The Distant Clue
The ledger lay open on the scarred oak desk, its spine cracked and its pages yellowed by the damp air of the mill office, and Elias Thorne’s fingers, stained faintly with coal dust from the walk across the yard, traced the column of figures with a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. He was thirty-two years old, a clerk of twelve years’ standing, and the cough that rattled in his chest...
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