Moorfield House depresses God. The phrenological diagrams; the cadaverous patients with their deep-sea eyeballs and their miles of unfulfilled dreams; the phrenological diagrams; the puking newbies and passed-out oldies; the death's door patients with their raw ankles and soiled pants; the phrenological diagrams; the coppery apparatus with its threadbare ties - but chiefly there is the surrender to despair or vacancy that the rattling windows demand, the tendency of a patient to collapse into a seat or hang from a bed rail in a state of bitter capitulation to the sadness and boredom and loneliness and excruciating glamourlessness of their lives. In optimistic irony lies a picket sign at the end of the magnificent drive: Welcome to Moorfield House.
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