The Pale Meridian
It was a trick of the light, Mr. Vance said, his voice flat and dry as the dust motes dancing in the single beam of afternoon sun that pierced the heavy velvet curtains of his office, and you wanted to argue, to tell him that light does not move a silver locket from the left side of a wooden evidence box to the right, but the words died in your throat, choked by the smell of his pipe tobacco...
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