The Sleepwalker's Path
The fog rolled off the Thames at half-past three each morning, thick as wool and just as suffocating. Eleanor Ashworth stood at the bedroom window on the third floor, watching it move through the darkness like a living thing. Behind her, Dr. Thomas Ashworth slept—his breathing steady, his face peaceful, his hands folded over the quilt as if in prayer. Or as if in penance. She had not slept. Not...
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