The Wistful Asylum
The carriage wheels groaned against the gravel of the long drive, kicking up a spray of wet autumn leaves that clung to the brass fittings like dried blood. Dr. Elias Thorne sat rigid in the back seat, his knees pressed together, holding a leather-bound case of anatomical instruments and a sheaf of pre-printed questionnaires. He was forty years old, a man whose life had been measured in...
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