The Same Light Leaving at Different Speeds
Margaret Doyle was twenty-four years old in the summer of 1925, and she lived at number seventeen, Crossley Street, Stepney, in a house that smelled of boiled cabbage and floor wax and the particular sadness of furniture that had been bought for people who were no longer alive. The street was a narrow corridor of brick and cobblestone running east from the Commercial Road, lined on both sides...
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