The Distant Machine
Blackwood, October 14, 1892 My Dearest Clara, The coal dust here does not settle; it hangs in the air like a fine, grey snow that never melts, coating the inside of my lungs and the glass of my spectacles. I write this by the light of a tallow candle that sputters in the draft, my hands trembling not from the cold, though it is bitter, but from the sheer exhaustion of trying to prove a lie. I...
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