They hastened through the garden and crossed the lawn to the stone terrace. Mary yanked one of the tall glass doors until it opened after a few energetic tries. They entered a cavernous, high-ceilinged room.
Meg had never been in a room with so many books, nor one so beautiful. A large, intricately carved marble fireplace in the centre wall separated polished wooden bookshelves spanning three sides. Tall wooden ladders were attached to shelves on two sides. Sparrow-brown leather chairs and a matching sofa—deep, worn, and inviting—sat before the fireplace. Two Turkish rugs lay across a gleaming wooden floor and one more was pinned by a long rectangular table of beautiful mahogany. It was cluttered with papers and scores of pens and pencils, a typewriting machine, and books of all sizes, a
