These are my hands. No, I don't like them much either.
The book in my right hand is The Ingoldsby Legends, which - according to the title page - is by R. H. Barham, but appears to me to be a collection of folk tales best read aloud in a Scots brogue. There are stories in it like The Babes In The Wood, in poetry form. Very odd.
I'm not even sure I'm meant to have it. I rescued it from my mother, who was going to throw it away "because it's fallen to pieces; look at it." Well, yes, yes it had. But I can't bear to see books thrown away. So I took it, hid it, and this afternoon I raided my mother's stationery drawer. Scissors, glue, Sellotape. I set to with reckless abandon (the task, not the Blink182 song) and repaired the poor book, and now I have a readable copy. That is to say, there is a readable copy in my possession. I think it was my grandmother's; it probably still is. But I'll read it before asking around.
Because that's what you do with books, naturally.
I'm not even sure I'm meant to have it. I rescued it from my mother, who was going to throw it away "because it's fallen to pieces; look at it." Well, yes, yes it had. But I can't bear to see books thrown away. So I took it, hid it, and this afternoon I raided my mother's stationery drawer. Scissors, glue, Sellotape. I set to with reckless abandon (the task, not the Blink182 song) and repaired the poor book, and now I have a readable copy. That is to say, there is a readable copy in my possession. I think it was my grandmother's; it probably still is. But I'll read it before asking around.
Because that's what you do with books, naturally.
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