The Distant Affair
The ink was wet. It always was. I stood in the center of the room. The walls were white. The floor was oak. My hands were trembling. I held the pen. It was a heavy thing. Brass capped. Cold. The document lay on the desk. A simple form. Three lines. My name. The date. The signature. Outside, the city roared. It was London. 1924. The rain hit the glass. It sounded like needles. I watched the...
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