The Shadow Surgeon
The fog came in off the Thames like a living thing, thick and yellow as old pus, swallowing the gas lamps whole. Evelyn Cross pulled her coat tighter and quickened her pace through Whitechapel's crooked streets. Seven years of Scotland Yard had taught her one thing: the city did not care if you were alive or dead, and it certainly did not care about justice.She had been a hero once. Six months...
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