He stowed them skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was waiting.
Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves.

Many of those vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle.
In most of them his name was written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin.

Of course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed; such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two pounds ten.

Books are cheap, you know.

At need, one can buy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence.