The Pale Meridian
It is not a hand, Mr. Vane. It is a component. The debt collector stood in the doorway of the workshop, his boots leaving muddy prints on the linoleum floor. He was a thin man, dressed in a coat that seemed to have been tailored for a skeleton, and he held a ledger in one hand and a heavy, brass key in the other. I looked past him to the corner of the room, where Clara sat in the high-backed...
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