In reality he was not reading for the plot, but for the pictures he found, and he dreaded coming to the end of a book also, for books were rare in his life.

A scrap of a magazine was a treasure.

A full volume was a nameless delight.
And so he worked slowly through every paragraph and made it his and dreamed over it until he knew every thought and every picture by heart.

Once slowly devoured in this way, it was useless to reread a book.

It was far better to simply sit and let the slow memory of it trail through his mind link by link, just as he had first read it and with all the embroiderings which his own fancy had conjured up.
Often this stupid pondering over a book would madden the two brothers.
It irritated them till they would move the lantern away from him.