The Wistful Asylum
The warrant is void, Thorne said, and his voice sounded too large for the cramped office, too heavy for the air that smelled of damp wool and stale tobacco. Magistrate Alder looked up from his ledger, his spectacles sliding down a nose that had been broken twice and set poorly. It is not void, the magistrate replied, merely unenforceable under the old charter. You are asking me to sign a paper...
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