The Wistful Skyline
The brass valve in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, a solid weight against the damp heat of the mill floor, and he held it with the white-knuckled grip of a man trying to hold back a tide. He stood before the pneumatic loom, a machine of iron and steam that occupied the center of the workshop like a sleeping beast, and his wife, Clara, stood ten feet away, her hands tucked into the pockets of her...
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