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Downdraught Dejected, he leaves the sumptuous confines of the Gentleman’s Club a ruined man. Yesterday, he owned this town; today, he’s nothing better than the filth found in its gutters. Fine shoes and expensive clothes count for nothing when all of your secrets have been laid out in the open, to be pawed at like the morning paper. He passes through the wrought iron gate and turns his head to look back on all that he once had. The Club’s black façade shuns him, hiding itself in the shawl of kiln smoke that hangs only a few feet above his head. But even without seeing it, he knows; he knows the lavish carvings of its door are now permanently closed to the likes of him. If he had the strength to cry, he’d be lost in a solitary world of frustration and tears, but they’ve even soiled this luxury. Dragging his feet across the cracked blue brick pavement, his head bent so that onlookers see only the face of his top hat, he is blind to the passing trams and hansoms. They speed along Burslem’s high street, taking people he once habitually conversed with to their chosen destination. Potbank owners; industrialists and royalty. All have dined in his home; all have sat before his fireplace and talked business over a fine French Cognac and a Tropigan cigar. He has never called them friends – what’s the old saying? keep your friends close and your enemies closer? But acquaintances, definitely. People of worth, certainly. These were the terms he’d used to label them; these had been their labels in the past. But not today. Not anymore. |
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