The Pale Path
The first thing I counted was the hours, seven of them, and the second thing was the shillings, twelve of them, and the third was the pieces of silver, three of them, lying in the velvet tray like the broken bones of a small bird. It was November, 1912, and the cold in my workshop on Threadneedle Street was a physical weight, a damp thing that settled into the joints of my hands and the springs...
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