The idols only leered in
Rachel's face, and the cabinets of grotesque design were unprovided with
any key to their history of former uses. In sheer desperation Rachel
betook herself to her husband's study; it was the first time she had
crossed that threshold in his absence, but within were the books, and a
book she must have.
These also had been purchased with the house. With few exceptions, they
were ancient books in battered calf, which Steel had stigmatized as
"musty trash" once when Rachel had asked him if she might take one. She
had not made that request again; indeed, it was seldom enough that she
had set foot inside the spacious room which the old books lined, and in
which the master of the house disliked being disturbed. Yet it was
anything but trash which she now discovered upon the dusty shelves.
There was _Tom Jones_ in four volumes and the _Spectator_ in eight, _Gil
Blas_ and the works of Swift, all with the long "s," and backs like
polished oak; in the lower shelves were Hogarth and Gillray in rare
folios; at every level and on either hand were books worth taking out.
But this was almost all that Rachel did; she took them out and put them
in again, for that was her unsettled mood.
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