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I waited weeks, months, years, to get my hands on a copy of Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. I savoured every word, every phrase, every sentence. I relished each simile and metaphor–they were as southern as biscuits and gravy. I fell in love with Inman and admired Ada and Ruby. I counted the seconds until I would be home each evening so I could bury my nose in this tale. I dreamt of Inman’s journey and Ada and Ruby’s struggles on the farm.

Then I got to the end. And I felt confused. And disappointed.

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