"There are some things (like first love and one’s first reviews) at which a woman in her middle years does not care to look too closely."

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Dawn crept over the Downs like a sinister white animal, followed by the snarling cries of a wind eating its way between the black boughs of the thorns. The wind was the furious voice of this sluggish animal light that was baring the dormers and mullions and scullions of Cold Comfort Farm.

— Stella Gibbons