The Luminous Grave of Dame Erin Worth
I write these words by the flickering of a gas lamp that I myself invented, though no man at the Royal Society would ever credit my hands with such knowledge. The fog presses against the windowpane like a living thing — thick, yellow, and insistent. It was always like this in London, even on nights when the stars might have been visible if the world had permitted women to look upward without...
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