The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow with coal smoke, swallowing the
The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow with coal smoke, swallowing the gas lamps whole. Arthur Cavendish stood on the embankment at five in the morning, his boots sinking into the mud between the cobblestones, his fingers numb inside threadbare gloves. Below him, the river churned with refuse—broken crates, dead rats, the occasional splintered piece of furniture...
0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews