The Wistful Grid
The envelope was thick, heavy with the starch of official paper, and Arthur Vane held it in his trembling hands as if it were a brick of wet clay. He did not open it immediately; instead, he turned it over, feeling the crisp edge of the seal, his mind drifting back to the dream that had plagued him since the autumn. In the dream, a grid of pale, electric light descended upon his mother’s...
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