Jonathan

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Every time I touched it I could feel the letter crackling through the soft, yielding cloth like the flames of a newly kindled fire; yes, it was there, it moved and stirred close to my breast like a living thing, and while the others babbled away happily over their food I could think of nothing but the letter and the desperate plight of the girl who had written it.
Beware of Pity (Woolf Haus Classics)
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