"For
my part, I think there's far too many books in the
world now."
CHAPTER 29
GILBERT AND ANNE DISAGREE
Gilbert laid down the ponderous medical tome over which
he had been poring until the increasing dusk of the
March evening made him desist. He leaned back in his
chair and gazed meditatively out of the window. It was
early spring--probably the ugliest time of the year.
Not even the sunset could redeem the dead, sodden
landscape and rotten black harbor ice upon which he
looked. No sign of life was visible, save a big black
crow winging his solitary way across a leaden field.
Gilbert speculated idly concerning that crow. Was he a
family crow, with a black but comely crow wife
awaiting him in the woods beyond the Glen? Or was he a
glossy young buck of a crow on courting thoughts
intent? Or was he a cynical bachelor crow, believing
that he travels the fastest who travels alone?
Whatever he was, he soon disappeared in congenial gloom
and Gilbert turned to the cheerier view indoors.
The firelight flickered from point to point, gleaming
on the white and green coats of Gog and Magog, on the
sleek, brown head of the beautiful setter basking on
the rug, on the picture frames on the walls, on the
vaseful of daffodils from the window garden, on Anne
herself, sitting by her little table, with her sewing
beside her and her hands clasped over her knee while
she traced out pictures in the fire--Castles in Spain
whose airy turrets pierced moonlit cloud and sunset
bar-ships sailing from the Haven of Good Hopes straight
to Four Winds Harbor with precious burthen.
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