The Faded Road
The count had reached four thousand, seven hundred, and twelve cycles when the tremor in Arthur Vane’s left hand finally overcame the leverage of the iron grip. It was a small thing, a mechanical failure of the nerves, a microscopic slip in the transmission of will from brain to finger, but in the hallowed silence of the Halloway Steel Works, it was a catastrophe. The hydraulic press, a beast...
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