The Pale Circus
The rain in Bristol did not fall so much as it hovered, a persistent grey mist that clung to the brickwork and seeped into the bones, a dampness that seemed to have its own slow, deliberate intention. In the back room of a shop on Narrow Quay, a man named Arthur Pendelton sat at a workbench cluttered with tools that had seen better decades, his hands stained with the residue of a hundred...
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