The sound of guns in the distance is like the ruffian cadence of heavy rain on a tin roof. Black smoke trails in funereal banners through the clouds as, somewhere out there beyond the walls of Londinium, along the embattled coastline, ships burn in the cool of early morning. In response to the distant clatter and the ominous darkening of the sky, the haughty splendour of the Hanover district brews a genteel panic.
Ladies with hats askew and corsets ill-tied usher squalling children into carria...
Published on October 19, 2012 16:31