The building on St Giles' Road had once been a printing works—bricked warehouse, iron windows, soot-stained limestone from a century of London smog. By the time Beatrice Ashcombe found it, the chimney was capped, the presses were gone, and the floorboards groaned with the memory of type men.
She stood in the doorway with her key turning slowly in the lock, feeling the weight of the space the...
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