The Pale Circus
The Pale Circus Julian Ashworth-Cross arrived at the disused fairground on a Tuesday in November, when the London fog had the consistency of wet wool and the iron skeleton of the grand top tent clawed at a sky the colour of old bruises. He had not planned to come here. The letter that had brought him — typed on thick cotton paper, postmarked three weeks before, addressed simply to "Julian, if...
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