““I was rooting about among the things for sale when I came on some old books—cheap, well-thumbed copies of the Greek and Latin classics with numerous manuscript notes in the margins. In the discoloured, battered pages were to be read no more the verses of Horace, the songs of Anaceron,—only the cry of distress and despair of a life that was lost. To their owner, whoever he was, these books had been a haven of refuge; he had kept them to the last—and if he sent them here; it meant his life was finished.””
