air grew thin the moment the train crossed the Pennines.
Lady Eleanor Ashworth noticed it first as a pressure behind her eyes—a subtle tightness, like a glove that had been shrunk half a size too small. She pressed a lace handkerchief to her lips and looked out the window at the Yorkshire moors streaming past in shades of iron grey and bruised purple. The 1888 night express from York to London carried four hundred souls beneath its cast-iron roof,...
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