The Weaver's Witness
The looms of the Lancashire mills were monsters of iron and steam, their rhythmic thumping a heartbeat that drowned out the cries of the children who crawled beneath them. I have spent forty years in the shadow of those machines, and I have seen many things break. But nothing broke as completely as Clara. She arrived on a Tuesday, a small, shivering thing wrapped in a blanket that smelled of...
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