The Pale Fracture
The rain in London does not fall so much as it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight across the face of the city, turning the gaslight on Kensington High Street into a smear of sickly yellow on the wet cobblestones. You walk through it with your hands buried deep in the pockets of your wool coat, the fabric soaked through to the skin, and you feel the cold not as a sensation but as a presence, a...
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