The Distant Ghost
The iron lung of the textile mill did not breathe; it shuddered. It was a convulsive, mechanical heave that sucked the air from the room and forced it back out, saturated with the scent of raw cotton and stale sweat. I stood at the end of the loom, my fingers blistered and raw, watching the shuttle fly back and forth in a rhythm that mimicked a heart attack. We were the women of the Ashworth...
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