The Distant Temple
The iron gate of the manor house groaned under the weight of Thomas Hale’s hand as he pushed it open, the rusted hinges shrieking against the damp morning air. He was a man of forty, with the stooped shoulders of a man who had spent thirty years carrying the burden of the law, and his face was a map of deep lines carved by wind and worry. He wanted only to see his wife, Eleanor, who had not...
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