Emily Brontë’s Lost Second Novel

One can only imagine what was going through Charlotte Brontë’s mind the day she knelt by the blazing fireplace in Haworth Parsonage, her family home, with her dead sister Emily’s unfinished manuscript clutched in her hands. Did she look at that purposefully tiny, yet passionately scribbled handwriting, and feel the tears rush to her eyes? Did it remind her of the countless afternoons she and her three siblings, all now “gone like dreams,” spent penning stories about their childhood imaginary worlds? Were the papers stamped with flour fingerprints from Emily’s never idle hands, the product of the writer-housekeeper busily moving back and forth from the writing desk to the kitchen, to the writing desk again?

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