There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. Wild in his own domain. Romance! The romance of passing faces, of wires that carried voices and words to the far ends of the world, of tremendous mechanisms that propelled ships and trains! And, oh the beautiful books! She swiftly knelt upon the floor and once more gathered the books to her heart. Good and Evil. What! mum still. Borrow. ’ ‘I could have done so at the first and saved you the pain,’ she told him merrily.
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