From Cinder to Crown
The soot of Manchester did not simply stain; it baptized. Arthur Blackwood learned this truth in the hour the loom-shuttle struck him, sending his skull against the brick wall and his consciousness backward through the hot, oil-choked air of 1847 to his fifteen-year-old hands, calloused and trembling. He woke on the straw pallet in the cell he had shared with three other boys, the smell of...
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