The Golden Compass
The needle slipped through the wool for the third time, a dull, resistant tear that sent a shiver up Elias Thorne’s arm, and he stopped, holding the fabric taut between his trembling fingers to inspect the damage, the thread snapping back with a soft snap that echoed in the hollow, freezing kitchen. He was forty-two, and his hands, which had once been steady enough to balance a ledger on the...
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