The Distant Nightmare
The cotton exchange in Warsaw ran on the principle that truth was a commodity with a shelf life, much like the bales of raw fiber stacked in the open cry, and Mieczyslaw Dabrowski, thirty-four years old and a customs inspector of modest reputation, stood at the center of the departmental gala watching the rot spread. The air was heavy with stale perfume and the damp chill that seeped through...
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