The Hour is late. The rain pours down, beating at the lead window panes, entreating entrance here. The trees outside wave their hands in the wind. Some branches scratch their twiggy nails on the panes. They seem to mock me.
The hour is late and the Museum is closed. The candle burns low and I cannot leave. By day I am the Curator of the MossThread Museum, by night a prisoner. I must confess to my wrong doing, must speak to you of my down fall. I have coveted the treasures of the MossThread Museum, stolen some of them. The price for my thievery is this curse: I must sell every item in the MossThread Museum until at last its halls and rooms are empty. Then I may leave. I am Ledley Barbour. Tomorrow I begin my task.
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