She practically snatches it from your hands. “Is this - yes! A second printing!” She whistles. “There were four, you know. The first was only eleven copies. The printing was peligin ink - so most of them have been devoured, or made nests of.
"The second was barely off the press when the factory burned to the ground. The third printing had several faulty plates, and key poems were lost. Then this tradition with the tears began, and claimed most of the final printing."
She turns the pages carefully. “It’s not so much the poems, you understand. Although they’re occasionally relevant. It’s the water-marks.” She holds a page up to a nearby gas-lamp. Faintly, mostly obscured by the smudged ink, you can see the outline of a Correspondence-sign worked into the paper.