Rising from the stairs, I stepped into the darkness of the shop. I didn’t he light switch to find my way. I know the shop the way you know the places of your childhood. Instantly the smell of leather and old paper was soothing. I ran my fiips along the spines, like a pianist along his keyboard. Each book has its own individual he grainy, linen-covered spine of Daniels’s History of Map Making, the racked leather of Lakunin’s minutes from the meetings of the St. Petersburg Cartographic Academy; a well-worn folder that tains his maps, and-drawn, hand-colored. You could blindfold me and position me anywhere ohree floors of this shop, and I could tell you from the books under my fiips where I was.
We see few ers in Lea’s Antiquarian Booksellers, a st half-dozen a day on average. There is a flurry of activity iember wheudents e to buy copies of the new year’s set texts; another in ay when they bring them back after the exams. These books my father ills m……（内容加载失败！）
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