Harvard Classics Five-foot Shelf Of Books の小説・ストーリー

Instead she reached out her impractically-shod right foot onto one of the lower shelves so that her legs were splayed across the aisle, one on the shelf, the other on the ladder. Ms. Sharma stood on a low stool in front of her as she slowly passed down various pieces of bric-a-brac to him. She was even more acutely aware that, in this awkward and exposed position with her legs stretched wide apart, he couldn't have helped have noticed her pink pussy lips which were bulging plumply around the narrow gusset of her g-string, only inches from his face. Suddenly, as Claire picked up two delicate porcelain vases, the now-empty top shelf, which quite possibly until now hadn't been touched in years,

It was a study room. “I’m really sorry. I will just go.” I walked in the direction I came in. I couldn’t comprehend why I keep messing up everything. First it was climbing into his bed when he wasn’t there, then the embarrassing Leo story that my bestfriends took the honor of narrating. “Stay.” He muttered. I stopped in my tracks and looked puzzlingly at him. I avoided eye contact and settled my gaze to the books on the shelf. They were classics from Jane Eyre down to the Lord of the Flies. At the bottom of the shelf stood a huge collection of contemporary romance novels, the largest list I had ever seen someone possess.

I close the door quietly. I spend an hour in the smaller library looking at the books. He has everything. Fiction. Nonfiction. Art books. History. A whole shelf of poetry that looks like it has never been touched. I pull out a volume of Mary Oliver and flip through it. Someone has dog-eared a page. I read the poem. "Wild Geese." I read it twice.

There was no one in it. I walked the shelves. PACK LAW. CONTINENTAL CODES. FOUNDER-LINE PROVISIONS. I pulled down a thin grey volume titled The Hierarchies and Rights of the True Alpha: A Reading. I carried it to the long oak table at the centre. I sat down. I opened it. I had been reading for forty minutes when the library doors opened. I did not look up at once.

He walked toward the largest bookshelf in the room. Lucian noticed there was no hesitation in his movements. Richard wasn't searching. He knew exactly where he was going. He removed three worn books from the middle shelf—an atlas, a volume of Shakespeare, and an old gardening guide Elena remembered teasing him about for years. Behind them was a small brass catch, almost invisible against the dark wood. Richard pressed it. A soft click broke the silence. Part of the bookshelf shifted inward, revealing a narrow compartment recessed into the wall. It wasn't elaborate.

A single armchair squats in the corner, worn at the arms, a reading lamp bent over it like a question. Julian Croft has a hidden library. The ice king, the man who dismantles empires before breakfast, reads poetry in secret. I walk the shelves. Keats. Frost. Neruda. Dickinson. And Rilke. A whole row of Rilke, different translations, some so loved the covers are mended with tape. I ease a thin volume from the shelf. Letters to a Young Poet. Dark blue cloth, frayed at the corners. I open it and recognize his handwriting instantly. Sharp, angular, the same hand that signed my contract at 4:52 AM.

The room felt cold. FIVE YEARS LATER I stepped into the library to pick a book for a boring literature assignment given to me by Prof Gray about pride and prejudice. I hate that story. I was in my final year at college and I still don't understand why a professor will be giving me such an assignment. I walked through the shelves which contained literature books and bumped into someone. Her books fell to the ground so as she, her long brown hair covered her face. I don't budge to bend and help her, how clumsy is she? I'm sure she is a freshman.