The Pale Mist
“You’re going to be late again,” his mother said, without turning from the sink. Edward Ashworth stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his cap already in his hand. The mill whistle had blown twice already. He could hear it through the walls, a thin, insistent sound that seemed to live inside the house. “I know,” he said. “Then go.” He went. The streets of Merrow were gray with the same fog that...
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