The Golden Mirror
Vane. The word hung in the air of the train car, sharp and thin as a wire, spoken by the ticket inspector who did not look up from his ledger. Arthur Vane straightened his back, the motion sending a jolt of pain through his lower spine, and offered the ticket with a hand that trembled only slightly. He was thirty-two years old, though the hollows beneath his cheekbones suggested a man who had...
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