The Cabinet of Dr Purvis
I first knew something was wrong on a Tuesday in November, when the fog over London was so thick you could taste it. Dr Edward Purvis sat at his desk in the East End flat he had rented three months prior, and opened a manila folder marked Martha. Inside was a diary entry he did not remember writing. The handwriting was his— he would know it anywhere, with its peculiar slant to the right and the...
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