Over an operating table in Manhattan stood a huge old man. His surgeon's gown hung straight from broad shoulders. Its sleeves ended in neat, starched bands about his wrists, just above monstrously big and bony hands, hands that opened, closed with sinuous, powerful contractions, extensions. The surgeon was about to go to work.
On the operating table lay a little girl. One leg was shorter than the other. One hip was dislocated, had been so from her birth. The doctor was going to help her. He was...
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