The Golden Compass
The frost came to the valley of the River Ouse not as a gentle chill but as a sudden, ironclad siege, sealing the earth in a silence so profound that Elias Thorne could hear the grain shifting in the sacks, a dry, rasping sound like the breathing of a dying man. He was thirty-two years old, a miller of grim and steady temperament, and the winter quota of grain hung over him like a guillotine...
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