The Jazz Age Amnesiac
The champagne bubbles rose in the glass like tiny prayers, each one carrying a wish that would be forgotten by morning. Henry Crawford watched them rise from his half-empty tumbler of whiskey. He had lost his left arm in the war—a clean amputation, the doctors said, which was the kindest thing anyone had said about it. The arm was gone, but the pain sometimes still visited him at night, a...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior