The Distant Journey
Edward Ashworth, in the eighty-fourth year of his age and the fifty-seventh of what he called, with a dry and unvarying humour, his private researches, sat at the square kitchen table in the cottage his grandfather had built of the local gritstone, and laid out the day’s work in the order it had held for thirty years, which was first the making of tea in the brown pot, then the opening of the...
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