The furniture was old and good, well kept and well polished, so that the shabby, friendly room had that comfortable air of well-being that only careful housekeeping can give.

Books were everywhere: a few precious ones behind glass doors, hundreds in low bookcases round the room.
"I needn't ask you if you are fond of reading," Pamela said.
"Much too fond," Jean confessed.

"I'm a 'rake at reading.'" "You know the people," said Pamela, "who say, 'Of course I _love_ reading, but I've no time, alas!' as if everyone who loves reading doesn't make time." As they talked, Pamela realised that this girl who lived year in and year out in a small country town was in no way provincial, for all her life she had been free of the company of the immortals.

The Elizabethans she knew by heart, poetry was as daily bread.

Rosalind in Arden, Viola in Illyria, were as real to her as Bella Bathgate next door.