The Wistful Letter
The coach wheels groaned against the packed earth of the King’s Highway, a sound that seemed to tear the fabric of the twilight sky as Thomas Bradshaw pressed his face against the cold, condensation-slicked glass, watching the grey mist of the Cotswolds roll in like a funeral procession that had no end and no beginning, while inside the carriage the air was thick with the scent of damp wool,...
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