Wandering the house of a famous author from (now!) two centuries ago, a silhouette gestured to me to go upstairs and explore Charles Dickens's office and living room. I felt like a Victorian character from Sherlock Holmes had dropped in and was silently ushering me along. The atmosphere of famous authors gathered around the table, their long-dead words whispering fascinating conversation, his letters on the wall, entreated me to stay downstairs awhile.
Charles Dickens worked himself to death, but, oh, what a life he must have lead. The museum gave glimpses of that life in a way the biography I read decades ago could not convey. It was a lovely little treasure to visit on a rainy day.
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