“She types her letter to him after midnight. It is cold, with patches of snow, and ‘the landscape is fired by moonlight.’ She confesses: ‘I am thinking of you somehow… because I’m wearing your crucifix, I guess.’”
“She types her letter to him after midnight. It is cold, with patches of snow, and ‘the landscape is fired by moonlight.’ She confesses: ‘I am thinking of you somehow… because I’m wearing your crucifix, I guess.’”