The Distant Legend
The coat is still wet. You can feel the dampness of the river clinging to the wool, a cold, heavy secret pressed against your back as you stand on the platform of the train station in Ashford, waiting for the 4:15 to London. It is a garment of profound, industrial elegance, tailored from a dark, heavy tweed that seems to absorb the grey light of the early November afternoon. It is not merely...
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