The Silver Reeds and the Coffer

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2026-06-04 23:15:25 -

The fog rolled down from Hampstead like a dirty blanket, swallowing the gas lamps whole. Arthur Pendelton pulled his threadbare coat tighter and hurried along the muddy path beside the Thames. Twenty-eight years old and still broke, with ink-stained fingers from the printing house where he toiled twelve hours a day for twelve shillings, Arthur was past caring about the cold. The cold was an old...

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