The Wistful Silence
I Did he really think the wheel would stop for him? Dimitar Jovanovic stood in the walk-up apartment at seventy-one of Stonecutter Alley, the radiator knocking its hollow rhythm against the cold brick, and watched the sample case of the dead salesman sit on the kitchen table. It was a heavy thing, filled with swatches of wool and cotton, the last shift of a life that had ended before the rail...
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