![]() ![]() I was more than content to sink back into the warm-bath quality of this book and this, I think, was due to the characters. Strangely, though I would generally describe myself as the finicky type of reader that requires consistency and depth in my stories, this didn’t bother me. In fact, a common issue taken with Virginia Woolf’s writing is the way in which plot is perhaps passed over in favour of examining the minutiae, holding a microscope to a human emotion or, as in the central section in this book, the manner in which a house decays. This was not due to any gripping plot twists, not to witty repartee or romantic involvements that I just had to find the end to. ![]() I read this book like I eat chocolate, always intending to indulge in just a little bit, then finding myself inexorably unwilling to stop. ![]()
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