The Distant Temple
Act I Who pays for the ink when the paper refuses to hold it? Werner Klein asked this to the damp air of the greenhouse, his hands black with the residue of a report that had vanished from the desk an hour prior. He was forty-five, a clerk of the estate, and his pension depended on the final valuation of his father’s land. The house, a sprawling relic of Regency sensibility now rotting in the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews