The Distant Promise
The rain fell on Cambridge as it always did in November — not with the dramatic fury of summer storms, but with a patient, inexorable drizzle that seeped into stone and bone alike. Arthur Penhaligon stood beneath the vaulted ceiling of St Jude's Church, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, watching the last of the congregation file out into the grey afternoon. He was thirty-two...
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