The Pale Protocol
October 14, 1893 I write this by the light of the gas lamp, which flickers with a rhythm that matches the erratic pulse of the Grand Meridian, and I confess to you, Margaret, that my hands are trembling not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the debt I have accrued in years. I am forty years old, or so the parish records claim, yet I feel the hollow ache of a man who has...
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