The Wolf of Wuthering Glen
The storm broke at dusk on the third day Edward had been lost in the Yorkshire moors. He was seventeen, all sharp angles and sharper instincts, a boy who had learned to read the language of the hills before he could read a book. His father's gun rested against his shoulder, warm from use, and his satchel held three hares and a fox. He should have turned back. The sky was the colour of bruised...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen