The Gray Sanatorium
The rain in Chicago does not fall. It arrives like a verdict. I got to Graystone Sanatorium at four in the afternoon. The ferry from Wacker Drive cost me five dollars and a letter of introduction I did not ask for. The woman who hired me — Mrs. Edith Ashworth, silver-haired, silver-toothed, the kind of money that buys its own sunlight — told me her daughter Claire had gone there for "rest" and...
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