The Wistful Voyage
Arthur, the light is failing, and you are still standing there with that letter in your hand. The clerk, Thomas, did not look up from his ledger. He adjusted the brass lamp on his desk, the flame catching the dust motes that swirled in the draft from the window. The workshop was cold. Outside, the fog of the city pressed against the glass like a wet wool blanket, erasing the streetlamps one by...
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