The Wistful Incense
Act I Camille Sabatier wiped the soot from the bellows with a rag that had seen better decades, his hands moving in a rhythm that matched the heavy, rhythmic thud of the printing press vibrating through the thin plaster wall. The prefab hut at the dockside mission smelled of damp wool and stale tallow, a scent that had long since replaced the fresh air of the Norman countryside, now reduced to...
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