The Pale Protocol
The rain on the cobblestones of Whitechapel did not fall so much as it was driven, sideways and stinging, by a wind that smelled of wet iron and the coal dust that had settled into the very pores of the city like a permanent, grey lichen, and you walked through it with your head bowed low, your greatcoat soaked through to the skin, carrying in your left hand the small, leather-bound ledger of...
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