"Gibbon! Ten big volumes at least." Rachel said that she was sorry to interrupt, and was turning to go.
"Stop!" cried her uncle.

He put down his pipe, placed his book on one side, and rose and led her slowly round the room, holding her by the arm.

"Plato," he said, laying one finger on the first of a row of small dark books, "and Jorrocks next door, which is wrong.

Sophocles, Swift.
You don't care for German commentators, I presume.

French, then.