I saw it one day when I was painting
windows and doors at Ovrebo. Entire sets of authors they had, and authors'
complete works--thirty books. Why the complete works? I do not know. Books
--one, two, three, ten, thirty. They had come out each Christmas--novels,
thirty volumes--the same novel. They read them, no doubt, the Captain and
his wife; knew every time what they should find in the poets of the home;
there was always such a lot about all coming right in the end. So they
read them, no doubt. How should I know? Heavens, what a host of books! Two
men could not shift the bookcase when I wanted to paint behind; it took
three men and a cook to move it. One of the men was Grindhusen; he flushed
under the weight of those poets of the home, and said: "I can't see what
folk want with such a mighty crowd of books!"
Grindhusen! As if he knew anything about it! The Captain and his wife had
all those books, no doubt, that none should be lacking; there they were
all complete. It would make a gap to take away a single one; they were
paired each with the rest, uniform poetry, the same story throughout.
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