The Gentleman from London
The fog swallowed Whitecliff Asylum whole, as London fogs had a habit of doing. Arthur Pendelton pulled his coat tighter and quickened his pace along the gravel path, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened ground. The asylum loomed before him, a great Victorian edifice of red brick and blackened stone, its windows like blind eyes staring out over the Thames. Lord Windsor had been very...
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