The Distant Metropolis
The carriage wheels groaned against the gravel as Arthur Vane descended from the vehicle, his boots sinking into the mud that clung to the estate of Blackwood with a tenacity that mirrored the fog rolling in from the valley below. It was the autumn of 1893, and the air tasted of coal smoke and wet rot, a sensory assault that Arthur, a man of forty who had spent two decades in the rigid...
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