The Pig in the Iron Cage
The Yorkshire wind did not blow; it hunted. It moved across the moors with a purpose that had nothing to do with weather and everything to do with hunger. Eleanor Hartley pulled her shawl tighter and walked faster, her boots sinking into the peat that had swallowed three sheep that winter and shown no regret. She was twenty-eight, widowed for eleven months, and had been living in the stone...
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