The Golden Myth
The needle did not point north. It spun, a frantic, dizzying blur of red and black, before locking with a magnetic snap directly onto my chest, an inch from the sternum. My father, Thomas Penhaligon, sat opposite me in the drafty compartment of the night train, his eyes rolled back so far that only the whites were visible, his fingers white-knuckled around the tarnished brass compass. He had...
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