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 lookedat 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 Ihave," he said and stretched it out to me. I took with the words, "I am a lover of old books."
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."
