The Pale Altar
The air in the sanctuary of St. Jude’s was not merely thin; it was a living membrane, stretched tight over the ribs of the iron structure, vibrating with a subsonic hum that settled in the marrow of one’s bones. We were gathered in the vaulted nave, a congregation of soot-stained clerks and pale-faced women from the textile mills, their breath misting in the unheated gloom, for the Feast of the...
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