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Updated: May 9, 2025
I even thought, a little wildly, of buying a copy of "The Monk" by M.G. Lewis, which I saw there. So does the frenzy rage when once you unleash it. I hurried off to the office of the Oxford University Press, Kenko's publishers. It was a pleasant reception room, not very bookish in aspect, but in my agitation I was too eager to feel surprised by the large billiard table in the offing.
In the earlier pages of Kenko's book there are a number of allusions to the agreeableness of intercourse with friends, so I went into a nearby restaurant to telephone to a man whom I wished to know better. He said that he would be happy to meet me at ten minutes after twelve. That left over half an hour. I felt an immediate necessity to tell some one about Kenko, so I made my way to Mr.
One of those little green and gold volumes in the Oxford Library of Prose and Poetry. "How much?" I said. "A dollar forty." I paid it joyfully. It is a good price for a book. In 1917 they were listed at a dollar. Now $1.40. But I fear Kenko's estate doesn't get the advantage of increased royalties. The first thing to do was to find a place to read the book. My club was fifteen blocks away.
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