To me, every book is a romantic relationship. For a couple of hundred pages, I stare adoringly at the text, immersing myself in each word.
Sadly, Murder in the Snow didn’t turn into a great love affair. A quarter of the way through, my feelings started to sour. Another dozen pages in, and I was more than ready to break-up with the plot. I kept reading, but never managed to experience that special spark.
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