The Taker of Dead Things
The rain had not ceased since Tuesday, and by Friday the cobblestones of Pinchin Lane had taken on the colour of old bone. Arthur Pendelton stood in the doorway of his shop and watched the fog roll in from the Thames, carrying with it the smell of coal smoke and the persistent, unidentifiable odour that London had never managed to disguise.Inside the shop, shelves sagged under the weight of...
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