“It’s my favorite, too,” I said, which was true. “And I like to see a book with mileage.” That was also true. I opened the book, looked approvingly at a smear of long-dried chocolate on the flyleaf, and then wrote: For Frieda Kennedy, whose husband was there to lend a hand. Thanks for sharing him, and thanks for reading, Mike Noonan.
Source: Bag of Bones ▫𓂃
(echo:: @ ⌗)