Sharon Bradshaw > Quotes

“On a crisp morning when old Father Winter was nipping noses and fingertips until they ached, a shadow flitted across the narrow passage between the buildings. A low moan escaped its lifeless lips. Whilst a passerby assumed it must have been the wind. It had started to snow again on the roofs which sagged between the black and white timbered gables. Their ancient tiles, a reminder of another era. The people who lived in the rooms beneath, behind the herringbone of blackened wood, became the eyes which still stare through diamond window panes of Elizabethan glass. Watching. Always watching, those who are alive today.”
― Sharon Bradshaw, The Bookseller's Ghost