The Pale Dance
The leather of the ledger is slick with the sweat of your palms, the binding fraying at the spine where you have turned the same pages of wages and hours a thousand times over the last twelve years. You are standing at the head of the loom line, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and the acrid bite of coal dust, while the rhythmic clatter of the power looms hammers against your ribs like...
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