The Golden Mirror
Thorne. The word hung in the damp air of the Oakhaven station, spoken by the conductor with the weary finality of a man who had seen too many drunks and not enough fares. Elias Thorne adjusted the lapels of his suit, which had cost forty dollars in New York and was worth perhaps ten in this fog-choked valley, and stepped onto the platform. He wanted five hundred dollars. He wanted the specific,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews