The Wistful Letter
The air in the refectory of Blackwood Asylum for the Insane and Infirm was thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and the damp, rotting scent of old wool, a heavy, suffocating blanket that settled into the lungs of every man present and seemed to bind their thoughts to the floorboards as much as their feet, while in the corner, beneath the flickering gaslight that hummed with the faint,...
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