The Pale Tower
Act I Panagiotis Samaras pressed his left thumb against the edge of the desk, the wood splintering under the pressure, and watched the grain tear open like a dry riverbed in the heat. He was forty-five years old, a gendarme of the Cypriot interior, and his hand was no longer entirely his own; the fingers were stiff, the joints swollen with a cold, grey stiffness that the village doctor, Dr....
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