The Pale Letter
12th October, 1893. The paper is not paper. It is a membrane, pale as a bruise, lying upon my desk in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. I have been a clerk for nine years. I know the weight of ink, the grain of cotton rag, the way a stamp indents a document. I do not know this. It is written in my hand, but the slant is wrong, too steep, too desperate. It demands I sign the report condemning...
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