Once, while I was walking in a park in London, I saw an old strange-looking man. He was sitting on a bench holding a closed book in his hands. I sat down on the bench and looked at the book. I saw that the book was of great interest. It was a very old copy of early Byron's works. I looked at the old man in surprise and undersood that he knew I had sat on the bench because of him and the book he was holding in his hands. I smiled. "It is the last I have," he said and stretched it out to me. I took with the words, "I am a lover of old books."
I opened this small book and looked at the date. "Oh," I said. "It was a remarkable book." "Yes," he sighed . "I had to sell it to buy the necessities of life. I had a hard life and this book was always a comfort to me."
I nodded and thought that I have never seen such a remarkable book.