The Jinx of Whitechapel
The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow, swallowing the gas lamps one by one as dusk fell over Whitechapel. Thomas Gray stood at the edge of Dorset Street and watched it move through the narrow alleys, carrying with it the stench of coal smoke and human waste. He pulled his threadbare coat tighter around himself and felt the familiar weight of the label that had...
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