The Wistful Skyline
The Manchester rain had a particular quality in November—thin, insistent, the sort that seeped through wool coats and settled into the bone. Eleanor Marsh stood at her kitchen window on the fourth floor of a converted mill house in Ancoats, watching the sky descend over the city like a slow bruise. Below, the canal water moved with the same patient indifference it had shown since the eighteen...
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