She came to Manchester on a Tuesday that tasted of iron.
The city was expanding in every direction like a photograph being pulled taut by unseen hands, and Clara Wetherell felt herself caught in the geometry of it—the straight lines of new roads bisecting centuries-old alleyways, the glass towers rising where factories had once belched smoke into a perpetually bruised sky. She was twenty-eight...
English
Arabic
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek