The Wistful Mountain
The wind on the pass did not blow so much as it argued, a low, continuous thrumming that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones, a sound that the villagers of St. Jude’s called the breathing of the dead but which I, a man of science and taxonomy, had initially dismissed as the mere friction of air against stone. I had come to this isolated Alpine station in the autumn of 1893 with a...
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