Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare — Read

One suppertime I ventured to ask Mrs. Bowater if she would hand me down a tall, thin, dark-green volume, whose appearance had particularly taken my fancy. A simple enough request, but surprisingly received. She stiffened all over and eyed the bookcase with a singular intensity. "The books there," she said, "are what they call the dead past burying its dead."

Spoon in hand, I paused, looking now at Mrs. Bowater and now at the coveted book. "Mr. Bowater," she added from deep down in herself, "followed the sea. " This was, in fact, Mr. Bowater's début in our conversation, and her remark, uttered in so hollow yet poignant a tone, produced a romantic expectancy in my mind.