The Faded Alibi
The rain had turned the cobblestones of Whitehall into a slick, grey mirror, reflecting the gas lamps in long, trembling streaks. Clara Vane stood in the doorway of the Ministry of Records, her collar turned up against the damp chill that seeped into her bones. She was thirty years old, a junior clerk with ink-stained fingers and a hunger that no amount of tea could satiate. Her mother’s...
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