The Ghost of Lincoln's Inn
The fog rolled off the Thames like a living thing, pressing against the leaded windows of Edward Pendelton's new chambers at Lincoln's Inn. He had occupied the room only three days, and already it smelled of dust and other men's failures. His father, Arthur Pendelton, stood by the fireplace, examining a leather-bound case of legal documents with the casual arrogance of a man who had never known...
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