There is a prehistoric
vigor and a mystic beauty to them which elude the English at my
command. To be sure, every word I read in his three little volumes
was tinged with the fact that the author was the father of the girl
who had cast her spell over me.
But then the thought that she had grown up in the house of the man
who had written these lines intensified the glow of her nimbus
As I returned the books to the official in charge of the Hebrew
department I lingered to draw him into conversation. He was a
well-known member of the East Side Boh?me. I had heard of him
as a man who spoke several languages and was amazingly well
read--a walking library of knowledge, not only of books, but also
of men and things. Accordingly, I hoped to extract from him some
information about Tevkin. He was a portly man, with a round,
youthful face and a baby smile. He smiled far more than he spoke.
He answered my questions either by some laconic phrase or by
leaving me for a minute and then returning with some book,
pamphlet, or newspaper-clipping in which he pointed out a
passage that was supposed to contain a reply to my query.
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