I saw Voltaire in red morocco, Shakespeare in blue, Walter Scott in green, the "History of England" in brown, the "Annual Register" in yellow calf.

There I paused, wearied and discouraged already by the long rows of volumes.

How (I thought to myself) am I to examine all these books?
And what am I to look for, even if I do examine them all?
Major Fitz-David had spoken of a terrible misfortune which had darkened my husband's past life.

In what possible way could any trace of that misfortune, or any suggestive hint of something resembling it, exist in the archives of the "Annual Register" or in the pages of Voltaire?
The bare idea of such a thing seemed absurd The mere attempt to make a serious examination in this direction was surely a wanton waste of time.
And yet the Major had certainly stolen a look at the book-case.

And again, the broken vase had once stood on the book-case.