He stopped short of a group of adolescent saplings and turned the ignition off. ‘I find you excessively rude. Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. ’ He sighed. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. For a few minutes he kept them at bay.
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