The Pale Letter
The morning fog rolled off the Thames in thick, grey curtains that clung to the stone walls of the Magdalen House, a sprawling, damp institution dedicated to the care of those who had stumbled into the abyss of their own making, a place where the air tasted of boiled cabbage and stale regret, and where William Ashworth, a man whose hands had once trembled with the precision of a surgeon but now...
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