The Wistful Atlas
The smell of the study was a thick, cloying mixture of stale tobacco, damp wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of iron that seemed to rise from the very floorboards, a scent that had seeped into the pores of Arthur Vane’s skin over the twenty years he had occupied this cramped room above the Whitmore Insurance Exchange, where he now sat with his hands wrapped around a leather-bound ledger,...
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