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Life is short. And then you die.
Jane, as we mentioned earlier, loved books. There was nothing she relished more than the weight of a hefty tome in her hands, each beautiful volume of knowledge as rare and wonderful and fascinating as the last. She delighted in the smell of the ink, the rough feel of the paper between her fingers, the rustle of sweet pages, the shapes of the letters before her eyes. And most of all, she loved the way that books could transport her from her otherwise mundane and stifling life and offer the experiences of a hundred other lives. Through books she could see the world.
She wished people would stop trying to marry her off. It was such a bother.
If it is a gift, I do not deserve it. If it is a curse, I do not deserve it.”
“Bookcases. Books. There’s nothing I like more.”
