My Library1我的書房

When I moved into a new house a few weeks ago， my books， as was natural， moved with me. Strong， perspiring men shovelled them into packing-cases， and staggered with them to the van， cursing Caxton2 as they went. On arrival at this end， they staggered with them into the room selected for my library， heaved off the lids of the cases， and awaited orders. The immediate need was for an emptier room. Together we hurried the books into the new white shelves which awaited them， the order in which they stood being of no matter so long as they were off the floor. Armful after armful was hastily stacked， the only pause being when （in the curious way in which these things happen） my own name suddenly caught the eye of the foreman. “Did you write this one， sir？” he asked. I admitted it. “H’m，” he said noncommittally. He glanced along the names of every armful after that， and appeared a little surprised at the number of books， which I hadn’t written. An easy-going profession， evidently.

幾個(gè)星期前我遷居新房，我的書自然也隨我一起搬走。（剩余8194字）