The Distant Nightmare
The rain hammered against the iron gate of Halloway House, a relentless, metallic drumming that turned the gravel drive into a slurry of mud and slate. Arthur Vane stood with his hand on the cold, wet iron, his knuckles white as he gripped the bar, feeling the weight of the wet wool coat clinging to his shoulders. He was forty years old, a master clockmaker whose hands had once held the...
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