The Demonic Flame
The first time I saw the light, it was November and the fog clung to Whitechapel like a shroud. Arthur had been sleeping since vespers, his breathing thin and regular as a child's, and I was downstairs mending a tear in Mr. Harrington's best coat by the light of a single tallow candle. The rain began before the thunder—soft at first, then with such violence that I thought the roof would give...
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