The White Surgeon
The White Surgeon I. The fog clung to London like a shroud, thick and yellow with coal smoke, when Miss Evelyn Ashworth first stood before the locked door of Dr. Alistair Mortimer's private consulting rooms at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The letter that had summoned her bore no seal, no crest—only her uncle's signature in a handwriting so precise it might have been engraved: Go to Mortimer....
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