Rising from tairs, I stepped into t    sco find my antly tips along t along s oe: tory of Map Making, tes from tings of t. Petersburg Cartograp tains ion me anyips where I was.

        e see feomers in Lea’s Antiquarian Booksellers, a st ivity iember s e to buy copies of t texts; aory. At otimes of t see-g a t. Every summer brings tourist en track, is prompted by curiosity to step out of to tant, blinking as . Depending on ing ice cream and    t stay for a bit of sranquility or    not. More only visitors to t us from a friend of a friend, and finding tour. ticipation on tep into t infrequently apologize for disturbing us. t and as amiable as t mostly it is just Fathe books.

        ? you migomers e and go. But you see, terms, just a sideliakes place elseions a year. t    collectors, and    colles. If you o c tions or book fairs t tends frequently, you i ly spoken, quietly dressed individuals,    quiet. Does ioned. Fat doesn’t do to build up    on to    already , e of ttle green notebook. te some time. But later—a fe anotion or book fair, seeing a certaiively, en t, it ends t sometimes, folloions, tters. Fat deal of time posiers. In Frencalian, even occasionally Latin. imes out of ten teous t sometimes—imes a year—to a journey. A journey in y-eigimes a year. this is our livelihood.

        tself makes o no money. It is a place to e and receive letters. A place to    iional bookfair. In t is an indulgence, o my fatitles o. Yet iy— my faty and mine; I don’t pretey is t of t is a repository of books, a place of safety for all tten, t at present no one seems to . And it is a place to read.

        A is for Austen, B is for Bronte, C is for    tization at time as augo spell. I learo e too: copying out names and titles onto index cards t are still ty years later. t ter scer e uy. It was my life.

        My fat a book into my ead,    me roam and graze, making my oe seles. I read gory tales of oriiury parents t able for c stories t ; I read ats of arduous travel trea by spinsters in olines, and I ;ad iquette intended for young ladies of good family; I read books ures and books ; books in Englis uand, ories in my    words. Books. Books. And books.

        At sc all to myself. ts of ary essays, but my teacook takes, to eradicate times a ory lesson oudom seams of knoimes I stayed mum, dumbstruck by tary collision of t irely apart.

        Io o our more distant ts. At ten I ted to o t office. At eleven I relieved my mot against ty in in “old books,” so idious feater, igrying not to io time tir up a cloud of imaginary dust, and sably sogs o, able malevolence of books,    o be positioned beo do ting. It o e out to ter t.

        me looking for lost books. e desigems lost o t missing from tful position on t olen but, more likely, t in tminded broo ceiling housands of volumes.

        ‘And , cization,“ Father said.

        It    ake forever; I rusting it to me. to tell trut tered, for in uaking it, it was serious.

        It took me a    tember, ed, every lost book uro its    only t, but—and irospect, t seems important-—my fingers act, albeit briefly, he shop.

        By time I eens, I a on quiet afternoons le real o do. Oock sters ten, oo read.

        Gradually my reading green I found myself meandering oury literature, biograpobiograpters.

        My faticed tion of my reading.    migeresting for me. stle books, in manuscript mostly, yelloied ring, sometimes    simply read tite for food gre. It ion.

        I am not a proper biograp I am    all. or my oen a number of s biograpudies of insignifit personages from literary ory. My i ing biograpime and y. I like to disinter lives tat     of print for decades pleases me more t anything else.

        From time to time one of my subjects is just signifit enougo rouse terest of a local academic publisions to my name. Not books. Not says really, a feapled in a paper cover. One of my essays—“ternal Muse,” a pie t te in tandem—caugory editor and ing aury. It must    captured ttention of Vida inter, but its presen tion is quite misleading. It sits surrounded by ters, just as t I am only a dilettante, a talented amateur.

        Lives—dead ones—are just a    to sell t—but to look after ten I take out a volume and read a page or ter all, reading is looking after in a manner of speaking. t old enougo be valuable for tant enougo be souger by collectors, my e, even if, as often as not, tside. No matter ents, t touc t enougo e them down.

        People disappear ually tural. Yet for some tion to tion. For iio exist. e    rediscover tone of voice, tten    you. ter you. All t ure s is a kind of magic.

        As oends tend tteo resonate inside my , ters, irred by touc must be very lonely being dead.

        Altouce preoccupations, I    see    I ting off tial. I am not given to acts of self-revelation; it rato overy ual retice, I ten anyto avoid ing t matters.

        A I e it. “Silence is not a natural enviro for stories,” Miss iold me o t you.” Quite rigoo. So ory.

        I en    matters is t it     to keep. It was mine.

        My parents    t evening. t go out often, and    door to sit in Mrs. Robb’s kitc-door ly like ours but reversed, and t all made me feel seasick, so    rolled around, I argued once again t I    at    a babysitter. I     time my fato be persuaded    Mrs. Robb     eight.

        t t seven o’clock, and I celebrated by p a lass of milk and drinking it on tion at my o Lea, old enougo stay    a sitter, after t uedly bored.    to do    off oory of my neairs toilet. Everyt as it icular reason, I    t rouble blos’ oo insubstantial to rest, and ture, s brittle delicacy, cicks if a . Yes, t    in no time. I began to wisress.

        Upstairs I peered into t o see ed to t, to t, I studied my refle from all angles, o see someone different. But it    myself.

        My o kneead, I pus room. table paid lip service to t you could brus dressed    some bes ty. ts ss and blaigucked in and smooting. t of t    room, but    was w.

        Perplexed, I backed out of tood on the landing.

        t. te of passage. Staying omorroo say, in t nig go to a sitter. I stayed ed t it o make of it. I’d expected t I o fit tomatically, t I    my first glimpse of tio be. I’d expected to give up its co ss secret, adult side. Instead, cloaked in my ne you o grow up?

        I toyed o Mrs. Robb’s. But no. tter place. I craher’s bed.

        t t one scase, as gray in daylig    my mot ed flaps, bund a angled skein of Cmas-tree lig of tree a time I mas. No. as t a kind of growing up?

        riggling out from u tin. “    from uin—it ure of Scottisoo tigo open. Absently I tried t gave ronger fi I felt a pang of s and various, differently sized pieces of paper. Forms, part printed, part ten. ure.

        For me, to see is to read. It    s. My parents’ marriage certificate. tificates. My oificate. Red print on cream paper. My fature. I refolded it carefully, put it o t. It ical. I ificates?

        t. Same fate of birt name.

        o me in t moment? Inside my o pieces and came back togetly, in one of tions the brain is capable of.

        I win.

        Ign tumult in my head, my curious fingers unfolded a sec-id piece of paper.

        A deatificate.

        My twin was dead.

        I kne    ained me.

        tupefied by t surprised. For ire oo familiar to    tered quality in to my rigion of ligo me t set empty space vibrating. My pale shadow.

        Pressing my o my rig to s ure, o o me in pain, in perplexity, under duress of any kind. too familiar to be pondered until nos meaning. I win. here she should have been. By my side.

        art turning again on its slo, So t’s it. Loss. Sorro    me apart from ot me pany—all my life, and no I ificates, I kneer.

        After a long time tcairs. Pins and needles in my calves, I    as far as t ttom of tairs.

        ‘Is everyt, Margaret?“

        ‘Yes.“

        ‘ everything you need?“

        ‘Yes.“

        ‘ell, e round if you o.“

        ‘All right.“

        ‘t be long now, your mum and dad.“

        S.

        I returs to tin and put tin bader t t of t tact as my eyes locked togetingled under he bones under my skin.

        Later, my parents’ steps on tairs.

        I opeher gave me a hug.

        ‘ell done,“ he said. ”Good marks all round.“

        Motired. Going out ed one of her headaches.

        ‘Yes,“ she said. ”Good girl.“

        ‘And so, , s? Being home on your own?“

        ‘It was fine.“

        ‘t it op op of my ime for bed. And don’t read too long.“

        ‘I .“

        Later I s going about tting ready for bed. Fato find Moter.    so frequently did, “You’ll feel better after a good nig room closed. A fes later t click off.

        I k sical people instead.

        I win.

        My twin was dead.

        did t make me now?

        U t on my torso. ter    be of ts a ory. I ‘as as cold as a corpse.

        itter still in my    t upstairs to my flat, aircase narro eacories of books. As I , turning out ligo prepare pe letter refusal. I ell Miss ierest in porary ing. I er’s books. I    ervieer in my life. I    ease rutold, nervous of the living.

        It probably    necessary to put t last bit in tter.

        I couldn’t be boto make a meal. A cup of cocoa would do.

        aiting for to , I looked out of t glass . e pressed co cold, glassy ot for to tell us apart.
请记住本书首发域名：966xs.com。966小说手机版阅读网址：wap.966xs.com