I just said goodbye to some very dear friends. The angel Agnes Wickfield and her dear friend David. As well as the Micawbers. And poor little Emily. We have been together for the past 2 weeks, and it is sad to see them go, but I know they are not really gone. They are just waiting for me to pick up the book off the shelf and visit them again. In fact, I have visited them so many times, I can call their words to mind almost anytime.
Only Charles Dickens does this for me.
I know I'm an "uncultured swine", but I can't place which book your friends have come from. Reading this post reminds of the line from "Shadow Lands", "We read to know we are not alone." I'm grateful for authors who give us the gift of such friends, whose lives and experiences grow to mean so much to us.
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