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Unformatted text preview: t behind the smoked glass and knocked hard. "Lark here, Mitchell," he said in answer to a murmur on the other side. Mitchell Flanagan looked the way he always did, half blind and utterly incompetent, peering at Lark through thick wire-rimmed glasses, his thatch of yellow hair the perfect wig for a scarecrow, his lab coat dusty but miraculously unstained. Rowan's favorite genius, thought Lark. Well, I was her favorite surgeon. So why am I so jealous? His crush on Rowan Mayfair was dying hard. So what if she'd gone south, gotten married and was now embroiled in some frightening medical mayhem? He'd really wanted to get her into bed, and he never had. "Come inside," said Mitch, apparently resisting the urge to pull Lark right into the carpeted corridor, where strings of tiny white lights softly outlined both the ceiling and the floor. This place could drive me mad, Lark thought. You really expect to open a door and find human beings in antiseptic cages. Mitch led the way-past the numerous steel doors with their small lighted windows, behind which various electronic noises could be heard. La...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10