Margaret Atwood

The freezing rain sifts down, handfuls of shining rice
thrown by some unseen celebrant. Wherever it hits, it crystallizes
into a granulated coating of ice. Under the streetlights it looks so
beautiful: like fairy silver, thinks Constance. But then, she would
think that; she’s far too prone to enchantment. The beauty is an
illusion, and also a warning: there’s a dark side to beauty, as with
poisonous butter.

جهت استعلام قيمت و سفارش چاپ اين محصول لطفا با انتشارات گنج حضور تماس حاصل فرماييد.