Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words on the other hand, were a lifeline. They left their hushed rhythm behind, a counter to the slow in and out of Emmeline's breathing. — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
“Art, its completeness, its formedness, its finishedness, had no power to console. Words, on the other hand, were a lifeline.” — Diane Setterfield Copy Share Image
