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“There was, Julia Prescott decided, only the finest razor-edge between depression and despair. Depression had been constant for weeks, familiar, creeping up on her like a prowler in tennis shoes. But despair was the dreaded spectre behind the closed door, springing forth just when you least expected it. ['Through the Eyes of Love']” — Rosamunde Pilcher
There was, Julia Prescott decided, only the finest razor-edge between depression and despair. Depression had been constant for weeks, familiar, creeping up on her like a prowler in tennis shoes. But despair was the dreaded spectre behind the closed door, springing forth just when you least expected it.
['Through the Eyes of Love']