The Weight of White Lace

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2026-06-05 15:04:03 -

The rain had not ceased for three days. It fell upon Covent Garden in a steady, indifferent sheet, drumming against the windowpanes of the coffee house where Arthur Blackwood sat with a cup of cold tea and a mind that refused to settle on anything but the shape of his own ruin. He was thirty-four years old and already a ghost in his own life. His father's disgrace had consumed everything: the...

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