The Pale Letter
The tin cup was warm, its surface slick with a residue that was neither coffee nor water, and Edward Ashworth held it in both hands as if it were the only solid thing left in the world. He sat on the edge of the cot in the hospital ward, the air thick with the smell of carbolic soap and wet wool, while outside the window the factory whistle screamed its final, jagged note into the grey November...
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