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not alone, exactly, for you’re never alone in a room filled with a thousand books. But when she is alone with the books. Christie. The Brontës. Sayers. Mitford. Dickens. These are the people who got her through the years after April’s death.
She tries not to be judgmental about reading—No such thing as a guilty pleasure is Cathy’s motto, and it’s one Hannah largely subscribes to. Jeffrey Archer to Geoffrey Chaucer, Outlander to The Outsider—they all keep the wheels of publishing turning and money coming into the tills, and if they give someone a happy few hours, that’s good enough for her.
