“His shirt, which he’d owned long before he’d developed the temporary madness that had led to his getting married, had turned thin. The elbows resembled muslin or, worse yet, spiderweb. He was on his way to Wurzle’s lending library. He’d given up pretending that he was only after a book. He had a stack of G. Smithers – all of the White Mountains books he’d traded out of Gilroy Bastable – hidden away in the Widow’s windmill, and hadn’t half read through them yet. He was going to Wurzle’s to find ...Leta; that’s what he was doing. So far he’d had no success. Just look at me, he thought to himself, staring at his sad reflection in Beezle’s window. A month earlier if he’d looked like that he wouldn’t have cared. Caring wouldn’t have crossed his, mind. He would have prided himself in it, to a degree –laughed at Beezle in his starchy shirt and tie, tiptoeing around mud puddles and dusting off chairs before he sat down. Who in the world did a man like Beezle intend to impress?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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