The Distant Joke
The invoice lay on the steel desk, the ink still wet, listing the final payment for the pneumatic press: four hundred dollars, a sum that would clear the last of his father’s debts and leave Elias Thorne free of the shadow that had hung over the Ashworth Foundry for three years. He signed it with a steady hand, the nib scratching against the paper, a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet...
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