The Pale Circus
The rain lashed against the high, grimy windows of the Whitmore Textile Mill, blurring the view of the soot-blackened chimneys that stabbed into the gray November sky. Inside the office, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool and stale tobacco, a suffocating blend that Arthur Hale had come to associate with the slow decay of his own hands. He stood before the desk of the new director, Mr....
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