The Golden Fries
Eleanor Price stood before the gas lamp on Hanover Street, her hands trembling not from the chill but from the memory that always accompanied her when she reached for the potatoes. They lay in a wooden crate beside her—the last of the day's harvest, yellow and firm, each one a small weight against the emptiness in her chest. The fog rolled in thick off the Thames, swallowing the cobblestones...
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