The Wistful Grid
THE WISTFUL GRID The fog over the Thames didn't roll in that evening so much as descend, like a verdict handed down by a court that had already reached its conclusion. Arthur Penhaligon stood at his window in Bloomsbury and watched it swallow the streetlamps one by one, each flickering into amber and then nothing, as though the city were being erased from the outside in. He had spent...
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