The Pale Letter
The Pale Letter The Pale Letter The letter arrived on a Tuesday in late October, when the Thames ran the colour of old pewter and the fog had teeth. It bore no stamp, no postmark, only my name written in a hand I knew before I knew I knew it — as one knows the sound of rain before feeling the first drops on the back of your neck. Arthur Pendelton stood in the doorway of his study on Bloomsbury...
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