What I Saw at Smithfield
I have carried things on the docks of New York for twenty-three years, and I have learned that the most honest thing about a man is not what he says but what his hands look like. The Wren boy's hands were soft, the kind of soft that means you have never held a rope that was pulling something heavy and wished it would let go. His name was Edmund Wren the third or the second or possibly the...
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