“I still hadn’t understood; how there’s a certain smell to a dispossessed soul, acrid, bitter as smoke, the irrefutable odour of an angry refugee, banging on the doors of strangers,” — Elisabeth Gifford Copy Share Image
“How strange it was to...watch her walk round the table and the chairs by the fire, pick up my shells from the shore along the mantelpiece, and smile at everything and examine it as if she were reading the story of my life in the intervening years. She ran her hand along the book spines on the shelves, stopping to… — Elisabeth Gifford Copy Share
“I still hadn’t understood; how there’s a certain smell to a dispossessed soul, acrid, bitter as smoke, the irrefutable odour of an angry refugee,… — Elisabeth Gifford Copy Share Image
