Generally
at such times she did not think of anything, but lay immersed in an
inarticulate well-being. Today the sense of well-being was intensified
by her joy at escaping from the library. She liked well enough to have a
friend drop in and talk to her when she was on duty, but she hated to be
bothered about books. How could she remember where they were, when they
were so seldom asked for? Orma Fry occasionally took out a novel, and
her brother Ben was fond of what he called "jography," and of books
relating to trade and bookkeeping; but no one else asked for anything
except, at intervals, "Uncle Tom's Cabin," or "Opening of a Chestnut
Burr," or Longfellow. She had these under her hand, and could have
found them in the dark; but unexpected demands came so rarely that they
exasperated her like an injustice....
She had liked the young man's looks, and his short-sighted eyes, and his
odd way of speaking, that was abrupt yet soft, just as his hands were
sun-burnt and sinewy, yet with smooth nails like a woman's.
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