The needle entered his skin before she could draw another breath.
Arthur Winslow worked by the light of a single tallow candle, its flame casting long and wavering shadows across the walls of the tenement room. The girl—Martha, she had told him, though her name on the parish register was probably something else entirely—lay on a mattress stained with things he did not care to identify. Her chest rose and fell with the shallow, rattling rhythm of consumption's...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 24 Visualizações 0 Anterior