The Faded Sutra
The chisel bit into the plaster, sending a dry puff of white dust into the cold London air, and Arthur Vane did not stop working until the wall gave way with a sound like a bone snapping. It was November, 1893, and the study in his townhouse on Grosvenor Street was freezing, the damp from the November fog seeping into the joints of his fingers until the actuary’s hands, usually steady enough to...
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