The Wistful Witness
Yorkshire in the winter of 1937 was a place of grinding industry, where the mill gears screamed against the iron and the moor outside shrank to a salt-white line under the frost. The air smelled of wet wool and coal dust, a pungent mix that settled in the lungs of every worker who moved through the corridors of the asylum. Ruth Dobbs, the laundress, stood before the drying racks, her hands deep...
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