Gideon Smith And The Mask Of The Ripper - Plot & Excerpts
He had seen three summers in this hellhole, the heat and stench from the streets rising to fill his dingy room, and was facing his third Christmas, the howling, icy winds rattling the windowpanes, the snow piling up on the sills. He had chosen the area because it was the haunt of many Portuguese immigrants, close enough in appearance to him that he could hide among them, but different enough in culture that he could live unbothered by attempts at friendship or conversation. He had never divulged his address to his masters, some nameless fear encouraging him to fog and blur his location, even from those who held all the cards. He had hinted at rooms in more salubrious locations on the rare occasions that they had sent envoys—Markus Mesmer chief among them—to check on his progress. He had never felt so alone in his entire life. The summers in London were typified by thick, hot smog, through which the blue sky could be glimpsed only occasionally. He dreamed of the big country he had left behind, the far horizons, the endless skies, the air you could breathe deeply.
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