The One Who Got Away
The fog in November 1883 London did not roll in—it descended, heavy and yellow as old wool, swallowing streetlamps whole and leaving only their halved glow floating in the air. Eliza Hart pulled her shawl tighter and quickened her pace up the narrow staircase to her garret on Kensington Road. Her fingers were numb around the copy of Ruskin she had been reading by candlelight, the pages stiff...
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