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Three new library books lay virginally on the fender-stool, their bright paper wrappers unsullied by subscriber's hand.
He’ll base the book on his one meager week staying at a Hilton Hotel a mile outside of the city he’s describing and his reading of a few library books with names like The Jewel in the Dagger, orSiberian Uplift, orA Cornish Country Autumn, or Time/Life’s The Glory of Slurbostan.
He’d read library books about home projects, then build me a rocking horse or a sandbox or a set of flat wooden ducks—a mother and three babies, all set on four-inch spikes that he stuck into the backyard when the ground thawed—or he’d craft for my mother a small red wooden Ferris wheel to give to her on Valentine’s Day, each seat the exact size for an expensivelooking imported bonbon or sachet to sit.
Under it, half buried in my jitterbug research, were the library books I should have taken back two days ago.
We got the evening paper, and took it in, and then Keith said, as we sat at the kitchen table with our library books whilst June did some of the mending, Christina darned a tiny hole in the top of one of the stockings she was wearing at a dance that evening, and Jack stoked the fire for the bath-water before he settled down to the evening paper: