The Wistful Witness
The gas lamps in the alleyways of Whitechapel were not merely light sources but the weeping eyes of a city that had forgotten how to blink, casting their sickly, yellowish pallor over the wet cobblestones which reflected the sky like a broken mirror, and it was under this jaundiced gaze, in the thick, coal-choked air that tasted of sulfur and rotting turnips, that Arthur Penhaligon stood, his...
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