I HAVE been divorced from the main body of my books for four years now. Poverty and a wandering life made it regrettably necessary for me to put them into storage, packed in tea chests, in a London warehouse. But now that I am the tenant of a cottage in the south of Scotland, and now that my life wears a more settled aspect, the day approaches when I shall be reunited with seven hundred volumes, the cream of the library of my grandfather, of that of my uncle, and of my own acquisitions.
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