The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the windowpanes of the train carriage like the breath of the dead, blurring the industrial landscape of the Midlands into a smear of soot and iron where the wheels chattered against the tracks with a rhythmic, metallic toothiness that seemed to drill directly into the marrow of Arthur Penhaligon’s bones. He sat...
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