The Faded Sutra
The rain in Oxford does not fall so much as it arrives — all at once, like a verdict. Henry Ashworth-Cross stood in the doorway of his late great-uncle's study on Broad Street, watching the grey sky dissolve into the grey pavement, and felt the same inexplicable weight he had felt at the funeral: the sense that Reginald had not died so much as been edited. Removed from the text, but not from...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen