The Calculus of Grief
The fog clung to London like a shroud in November 1888. Henry Cavendish stood at his window in Bloomsbury, watching the gas lamps bleed yellow light into the grey soup, his mind already at work on the numbers that would either save him or destroy him. Three days earlier, he had pulled a woman from the path of a runaway steam carriage on Fleet Street. She had lived. A milkmaid named Clara Price,...
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