The Wistful Mirror
The ink in my pen has begun to run, bleeding into the cheap paper like a wound that will not close, but I must set down this record before the fever takes my hands entirely, for what I have done in the dark of the Blackwood Shaft is a thing that no man should witness twice, and I am the only one left to tell it. It is the fourteenth of November, 1893, and I am Arthur Vane, a man of forty years...
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