The Wistful Grid
The letter lay on the blotter, the ink still wet and smelling of iron, as Arthur Penhaligon stared at the signature he had refused to sign, his hand trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the paper itself. He was thirty-two years old, a junior actuary at the Meridian Insurance Exchange, and he had spent the last three weeks trying to prove that the new mortality tables...
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