Gears of the Confessed
The fog over the Thames did not so much hang as press against everything like a wet, cold hand. It was November 1888, and the city was drowning in its own breath—coal smoke, river damp, and the exhalations of four million souls packed into a maze of brick and stone. Arthur Pembroke stood at the window of his boarding house in Clerkenwell, watching the gas lamps flicker through the gloom like...
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