Harold Ashcroft-Edwards was a man who lived entirely in the space between what was said and what should have been said. For twenty-three years, he had inhabited the ground floor flat above Mr. Whitcombe's apothecary shop on Charing Cross Road, a room no larger than a drawing room that smelled perpetually of lavender water and old paper and the faint medicinal tang of the remedies Mr. Whitcombe...
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