The Golden Visit
The stone face of the Weeping Gate did not weep, though its eyes were carved in such a way that they seemed to hold a permanent, wet grief, and Thomas Bradshaw pressed his thumb into the cold, rough surface until the skin turned white, trying to feel if the rock was alive or merely very old. He was twelve years old, small for his age, and his fingers trembled not from the cold of the year 1342,...
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