The Pale Tale
The first thing I learned in the debtors’ prison at Holloway was to count the seconds between the clang of the cell door and the silence that followed, a rhythm as regular as a metronome, though far less merciful. I have been here for forty-one days, and I have counted them all, each one a small, cold stone added to the weight of my conscience. The watch is in my left pocket, wrapped in a scrap...
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