The Witness from Whitechapel
The house on Dorset Street caught fire at half past eleven on a Wednesday in November. I was behind the bar at the Broken Bones, polishing a glass with a cloth that had seen better years, when Mrs. Gable came running in. "Kowalski's place," she said. "It's burning. Call the fire brigade!" I set down the glass. I put down the cloth. I walked to the window and looked across the street. Smoke was...
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