There is a peculiar kind of homesickness that begins with a film. For two hours, another century feels inhabitable. The rooms are beautiful, the conversations seem worth listening to, and even waiting for a letter has an air of consequence. Then the end credits roll, your phone lights up, and the present feels a little less enchanting than it did before. Of course, a feeling of wistfulness does not require a period drama. An old photograph or a …
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