The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey drizzle that turned the cobblestones of Whitehall into slick, black mirrors reflecting the indifferent stone faces of the ministries that lined the street. I stood in the shadow of the Ministry of Internal Records, my coat damp and heavy, watching the clock on the tower strike the hour with a dull, muffled thud that seemed to vibrate...
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