The Distant Journey
The letter from the surgeon arrived on a Tuesday, folded into a square no larger than a matchbox, the paper stiff with the damp of the Manchester air that seemed to seep into the walls of the tenement and stay there, a cold that did not leave but settled into the joints like grit in a hinge. Martha read it three times, the ink blurring slightly not from tears but from the fact that her eyes...
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