The Gray Fog of London
The fog did not merely drift through the streets of East London; it possessed them. It was a thick, sulfurous shroud that tasted of coal smoke and old sorrows, clinging to the damp cobblestones of Wapping like a burial cloth. Arthur lived in the marrow of this grayness. A man of thirty who looked fifty, he spent his days scavenging the banks of the Thames, collecting the discarded remnants of a...
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