The Distant Journey
The tremor began not with a shudder, but with a silence, a sudden void in the left hand where strength used to live. Arthur Vane sat up in the narrow cot of his room on Harrow Street, the gaslight hissing in its brass holder, and watched his fingers curl and uncurl like dry leaves skittering across pavement. He was forty years old, though the coal had aged him into something closer to sixty,...
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