The Pale Shadows
The rain in London does not fall so much as it hangs, a suspended gray gauze that blurs the edges of the world until the cobblestones become a mirror for the sky and the sky becomes a mirror for the mud, and I am standing at the window of the small, damp room I have rented above the chandler’s shop on Fetter Lane, watching the water streak down the glass with a slowness that feels like the...
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