I loved that there was an old New England cemetery right next to it. Someone must have known that a stroll through one was a fitting path to the other.
Care had been taken to protect the architectural elements of an older style while providing the security of a sturdy renovation.
I took a chance and searched the Fiction Room for a copy of the book that I had purchased a few weeks ago in a used book store in downtown Boston.
I took down from the shelves the library's copy of Simone de Beauvoir's The Mandarins. Long since separated from its dust jacket, the book was the same 1956 edition that I am reading now. What this copy has that mine does not is that unmistakable library smell wafting from the pages as soon as I opened the cover.
On the covers on my bed, I had left the copy from which I read last night before falling to sleep -- page 393!
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