The Doppler Street
1925 Rose Turner was twenty-two years old the first time she noticed the colour of her husband's handkerchief. It had been white when she pressed it into his pocket that morning — white and crisp and smelling faintly of the carbolic soap she used for everything, the floors and the dishes and Arthur's collars and her own hands until they cracked in the cold. When he came home at half past six...
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