The body in the morgue was small and pale and had no name.
Arthur Pemberton found her on a Tuesday in September 1854, wrapped in a thin blanket that had once been white and was now the colour of weak tea. She was perhaps twenty years old, her hands folded over her chest like a child's, her fingers calloused at the tips from needlework. Her face was turned toward the wall, as if even in death she preferred not to look at the world. Arthur worked as a...
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