The Fog of Deception
The fog of London in 1865 did not merely drift; it possessed the city, swallowing the gas-lamps and the desperate souls who wandered beneath them. Arthur stood by the window of his rented attic, watching the grey veil consume the spires of the city. He was a man of letters who had written nothing of note, a poet whose verses were as hollow as his pockets. His only tether to a world of grace was...
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