The Pale Letter
The transfer order lay on the desk, the ink still wet against the cheap manila paper. Elias Thorne signed it with a hand that trembled less than his conscience, the pen scratching a final, jagged line across the bottom. He was forty years old, and his lungs felt like they were filled with wet sand. The pension office in London had given him six months, perhaps less, to secure his annuity before...
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