The Wistful Voyage
Alistair Finch stood on the deck of the RMS Marjorie at the rail's edge, the English Channel heaving beneath a sky the colour of bruised iron. He was twenty-seven, with the narrow face of a man who had forgotten how to eat properly and the thick fingers of someone who spent his days with clay. A sculptor, technically—that was what the letterheads said, that was what the gallery in Chelsea told...
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