The Wistful Voyage
14th October, 1912. The fog has settled into the coal office again, a grey, viscous thing that clings to the windowpanes and seeps under the door, cold enough to make the ink in my pen stiffen before it can dry, and I am sitting here at my desk, staring at the application form for the permanent clerkship, knowing with a certainty that sits in the pit of my stomach like a stone that Mr. Halloway...
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