Helene
Marigold, ensconced in a big library chair, her feet curled under
her, pink fingers supporting the oval chin, dreamily watched
Shirley's absorption. She seemed almost asleep, but her mind
drank in each mood that fired the criminologist's face, as he
thoroughly relaxed from his usual bland superiority of mien, to
revel in the treasures.
Ivory masterpieces, Hindu carvings, bronzes, landscapes, rare
wood-cuts, water colors--such a harmonious variety he had seldom
seen in any private collection. The library was another
thesaurus: rich bindings encased volumes worthy of their garb.
The books, furthermore, showed the mellowing evidence of frequent
use; here was no patron of the instalment editions-de-luxe!
"You like my things," and Warren's voice purred almost happily.
There was a softening change in his attitude, which Shirley
understood. The appreciation of a fellow worshiper warmed his
heart. "My books--all bound privately, you know, for I hate shop
bindings. Most of them from second-hand stalls, redolent with
the personalities of half a hundred readers.
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