The Wistful Voyage

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2026-08-24 16:39:50 -

October 12, 1911. The coughing started again at four in the morning, a dry, rattling sound that shook the walls of our small house on Mill Lane. I sat up in bed, listening to the wet, heavy labor of my father’s lungs, and I knew then that the winter would kill him. I am forty-two years old, a junior clerk at the textile mill, and I have spent my life in the service of my father, Thomas...

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