The Undertaker's Bargain
The fog over Whitechapel did not roll in that July of 1854—it settled, heavy as a woolen shroud, pressing against the gas lamps until their yellow halos bled into the mist like watercolor on wet paper. Arthur Blackwood pulled his threadbare coat tighter and quickened his pace toward the parish burial ground off Commercial Road. He carried a burlap sack of funeral supplies over his shoulder: two...
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