/lit/ - Literature

Why, yes, I do listen to electronic music while writing my great RR gothic social critique.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WtT5hJqtvOY

Valentin Quesada was an English salesman, but a native of Spain. When he was barely three years old, his parents had sent him to live with a distant uncle in Manchester. There he had grown up among the children of Mister Quester, his uncle, and when he was old enough, had been apprenticed to the same. At eighteen he enjoyed his complete confidence, earned enough money to sweeten his parents' late years, and was a popular member of society. His existence would have been perfect, had it not been for his excessive love of money. The youth he had spent with his uncle, in merchant houses and banks and other establishments that did not place the greatest value on philanthropy, had not passed him by without leaving a trace. For a pretty penny, he was willing to blur the rules of decency and morality. Not that he became a murderer for the sake of money - fortunately he didn't go that far - but far enough to have come into contact with the law on one or two occasions. This love of money, not to say greed for money, is the subject of this story. It almost cost him his head, and though he escaped with his life, he had to pay a high price for it.

It was late autumn. The few trees that had somewhat brightened the gray, dreary appearance of Manchester, the famous factory town, stood lifeless in the dusty alleys. The black smoke of the factories mixed with the already dirty, brown colors of the sky. It was, in a word, a bleak time. Quesada had been sitting in his office since the early hours of the morning, poring over a stack of stocks that he planned to invest profitably the next day.