In July, I stayed in a house brimming with books. Bookshelf upon bookshelf lined the walls of each brightly colored room. The old house put my own book-saturated home to shame.
When I woke each morning, I stood in front of those shelves, selecting what to read from this literary buffet. I thumbed through old favorites. I studied unfamiliar titles. I pulled several from the shelves until the great stack under my arm became unwieldy and my family wondered between pages if I’d ever come up for air.
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