Hunt the Cummings: In Love and War, bid a Farewell to Arms

It was 10 p.m. The tumbler of whisky glimmered in the stark light of the desk lamp as smoke rose curlingly from the cigarette dangling precariously on the edge of the makeshift tin can ashtray. The typewriter lay exhausted. Exhausted by the frenetic and painful hammering of nicotine-stained fingers as they poured out the story …

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