The Wistful Voyage
The ink is still wet on the final clause of the contract, and your hand shakes so violently that the signature looks less like a declaration of intent and more like a seizure. You are Arthur Vane, fifty years old, and you are dying, a fact your physician, Dr. Halloway, has stated with the blunt efficiency of a man who bills by the hour rather than by the heartbeat. The debt is four thousand...
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