Hello readers,
The walls in my apartment are flimsy enough that I know many details about my neighbors. “Am I being creepy or merely conscious?” is a question that reoccurs when certain personal noises penetrate the drywall. As long as I don’t aggressively pursue eavesdropping opportunities — by, say, standing against the wall with a drinking glass to my ear — I think I can claim innocence. And anyway, it’s a two-way street; surely the neighbors have gleaned uninvited data about my habits, too. To paraphrase a proverb: What I don’t know about what they know can’t hurt me!
Below, two novels that conducted me away from my pestilent urban dwelling and into 1) a country cottage and 2) a rural manor.
Happy travels,
—Molly
