IT would be a hard‐hearted man who could speak harshly of the Book Society without some inward pang of regret or remorse. Was there ever a more praiseworthy institution? Or one that set out with a more unselfish desire to improve the minds of humanity? So amiable are its figureheads, so admirable its objects, so harmless and well‐intentioned its activities, that the scoffer is silenced and the cynic rebuked. What cause of complaint can one find in a Selection Committee which contains Hugh Walpole, John Boynton Priestley, Clemence Dane, Sylvia Lynd, and George Gordon?
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