The Singularity of London
The fog of 1888 did not merely cling to the cobblestones of Whitechapel; it seemed to breathe, a heavy, sulfurous lung that exhaled the soot of a thousand factories. Arthur Penhaligon lived in the heart of this gray malaise, in a townhouse that smelled of ozone and old parchment. He was a man of singular focus, a physicist whose theories on the "Luminous Aether" had rendered him a pariah in the...
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