The Lower East Side Angel
The door to the basement clinic opened without knocking. Clara Goldstein pushed it open with her hip, camera strap dug into her shoulder, and found a man in his mid-twenties washing his hands at a zinc sink. He wore a white apron over a workman's shirt. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his forearms were covered in small scars—burns, cuts, the marks of someone who worked with his hands...
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