Ruskin describes how a poor writer found accommodation at Maple cottage that endured years of solitude ...how an old Miss Mckenzie ("the last of my generation") took pity on a poor old fool, who left comforts of London to try his luck as a writer in the hills of Dehra.
This is how they wrote. Like Poirot enjoying Belgian chocolates on cold christmas nights (tucked warm in blanket with his fav stories), these words gave solace for years.
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