The Wistful Incense
The first thing you understand, when the fog rolls in off the harbor and thickens into a grey, suffocating wool, is that the light has changed; it is no longer the pale, indifferent wash of the English morning but a bruised, violet twilight that seems to press against the inside of your eyelids, and you find yourself standing not in the damp, salt-stiffened air of the breakwater where you had...
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