He died on a summer afternoon in 1945 and woke up on a spring morning in 1910.
The transition was not dramatic. There was no flash of light, no voice from heaven, no sensation of falling through time. One moment Edward Ashworth was thirty-five years old, sitting in a hospital bed in London, listening to the radio play Chopin and thinking that maybe, this time, the war would be the last one. The next moment, he was twenty-six, standing in a small flat on Addison Road in...
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