"Come in quickly," said Mr. Stone. Turning to a big high desk of stained
deal which occupied the middle of one wall, he began methodically to
place the inkstand, a heavy paper-knife, a book, and stones of several
sizes, on his guttering sheets of manuscript.
Cecilia looked about her; she had not been inside her father's room for
several months. There was nothing in it but that desk, a camp bed in the
far corner (with blankets, but no sheets), a folding washstand, and a
narrow bookcase, the books in which Cecilia unconsciously told off on
the fingers of her memory. They never varied. On the top shelf the Bible
and the works of Plautus and Diderot; on the second from the top the
plays of Shakespeare in a blue edition; on the third from the bottom Don
Quixote, in four volumes, covered with brown paper; a green Milton; the
"Comedies of Aristophanes"; a leather book, partially burned, comparing
the philosophy of Epicurus with the philosophy of Spinoza; and in a
yellow binding Mark Twain's "Huckleberry Finn." On the second from
the bottom was lighter literature: "The Iliad"; a "Life of Francis of
Assisi"; Speke's "Discovery of the Sources of the Nile"; the "Pickwick
Papers"; "Mr. Midshipman Easy"; The Verses of Theocritus, in a very
old translation; Renan's "Life of Christ"; and the "Autobiography of
Benvenuto Cellini.
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