The Wistful Grid
Hale, you look like a man who has swallowed a coal and is afraid to spit it out. You are Thomas Hale, thirty-four years old, a constable in the industrial town of Oakhaven, and you are writing this letter by the light of a kerosene lamp that costs four shillings a week to keep burning, because the gas mains in the lower district are choked with soot and the landlord refuses to pay for repairs....
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