The Wistful Skyline
Arthur. The name was not spoken with affection, but with the heavy, bureaucratic weight of a summons, pulled from the throat of the town clerk who stood in the doorway of the workshop, his face grey with the perpetual, sickly twilight that had settled over Harrowgate for the last three days. The clerk held a paper in his hand, stiff with damp, and his eyes darted to the grandfather clock in the...
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