The Hunger of Arthur Pendelton
## Act I: The Searing The fog rolled down from the Whitechapel rooftops like a living thing, thick with coal smoke and the stench of the Thames. Arthur Pendelton stood in his kitchen—a room no larger than a coffin, lit by a single gas lamp that hissed and flickered—and stared at the copper pot on his stove. He had found it three nights ago in the basement of the boarding house on Commercial...
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