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once, while i was walking in a park in london, i saw an old strange-looking man. he was sitting on a bench holding a closed book in his hands. i sat down on the bench and looked at the book. i saw that the book was of great interest. it was a very old copy of early byron's works. i looked at the old man in surprise and undersood that he knew i had sat on the bench because of him and the book he was holdingin his hands. i smiled. "it is the last i have," he said and stretched it out to me. i took with the words, "i ama lover of old books."
once, while i was walking in a park in london, i saw an old strange-looking man. he was sitting on a bench holding a closed book in his hands. i sat down on the bench and lookedat the book. i saw that the book was of great interest. it was a very old copy of early byron's works. i looked at the old man in surprise and undersood that he knew i had sat on the bench because of him and the book he was holding in his hands. i smiled. "it is the last ihave," he said and stretched it out to me. i took with the words, "i am a lover of old books."
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