The Faded Quadrant
Vane, Arthur Vane, you are late, and the ledger does not wait for the breathing of men. The voice of Mr. Halloway drifted across the dusty expanse of the mill office, a sound as dry and abrasive as the sandpaper used to finish the rough timber beams that supported the roof. Arthur stood in the doorway, his hands still black with the soot of the coal cellar where he had spent the previous twelve...
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