The Pale Dance
The fog did not merely settle upon the district of Blackfriars; it possessed it, a thick, sulfurous curtain that smelled of sulfur and old rot, suffocating the gaslights until they burned not with a comforting yellow but with a sickly, arterial red that bled through the wet cobblestones and into the marrow of anyone foolish enough to walk its streets at such an hour. I stood at the window of my...
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