“An obliging thrush hopped across the lawn; a coil of pinkish rubber in its beak. Tempted by the sight to continue her imaginative reconstruction of the last, Mrs. Swithin; she was given to increasing the bounds of the moment by flights into the past or future; or sidelong down corridors are alleys.”
Oh Woolf, how quickly you make me fall in love with a character.
— Nov 22, 2024 10:18AM
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