The Golden Song
The first thing I ever counted was the hours. Not the days, not the weeks, but the hours. My father kept a ledger, a thick black book bound in leather that had cracked at the spine, and every morning before the sun cleared the chimney stacks of Harrowgate, he would sit at the kitchen table and tally the time. Twelve hours for the coal delivery. Four for the letter from the solicitor. Two for...
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