Darrell. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. There was a strained, eager expression on his face. The Procession to Tyburn 462 XXXII. An enormous Hand that rose up swiftly, blotting out the sky. There was a black fear in his heart.
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