Six thousand people jammed London's Albert Hall, and most of them looked miserable. There were children on crutches and men and women with twisted limbs. Decrepit oldsters were there, and so were hysterics, neurotics and last-ditch incurables willing to try anything.
To an organ accompaniment they sang the hymn Oh Worship the King. Then Harry Edwards went to work on them. Cheer seemed to radiate like a nimbus from his well-pomaded white head. One by one, members of the unhappy audience limped, stumbled or were carried up to him on the stage; for each he had soothing words and deft touches...
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