Apples and Eggs

‘Now and then in the grass his foot knocked a dropped apple – he would sigh, stoop rather stiffly, pick up the apple, examine it with the pad of his thumb for bruises and slip it, tenderly as though it had been an egg, into a baggy pocket of his tweed coat. This was not a good apple year.” – Elizabeth Bowen, Summer Night

My ongoing links to an enormous project of gestalt real-time reviewing all the stories of Elizabeth Bowen:

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