by Emme Gannon @GannonEmme
It isn’t often that we read a novel where the characters are so three-dimensional that while we inwardly scorn some of them for their impertinence, they have the power to turn back at us and eerily point their finger as if to say, I see in you what you see in me. For me, the late Rosamunde Pilcher’s 1987 split-time fiction, The Shell Seekers, had that affect.
