"Now this is the library. This is my room. Now, we'll just wipe our feet once again—sideways, too—that's right. And I think our fingers are still a little sticky, eh? that's better—there!"
"'Normous!" breathed Percival. "Simply 'normous, to me, you know."
No dust sheets here, everything mellow with the deep sheen of age carefully attended. Tier upon tier of books, every hue of binding—dark red to brown, brown to deep blue, deep blue to white—and all, however worn, however aged, exquisitely responsive to Mr. Amber's soft chamois leather.
Mr. Amber waved a proud hand at them. "I expect you'll live a long time before you see another collection like this, Master Percival. And I know every one of them—every single one just like you know your toys. In the pitch dark—in the pitch dark, mind you—I could put my hand on any one I wanted without touching another. What do you think of that, eh?"
Percival has no better thought for it than the old one.
"'Normous!" he declares. "Simply 'normous to me, you know, Mr. Amber!"
"And the care I take of them!" Mr. Amber continues, as pleased with his audience as if Percival were the librarians of the House of Lords, the Bodleian and the British Museum rolled into one. "You wouldn't find enough dust on those books, anywhere, to cover the head of a pin!" He points to the highest and furthest shelves: "You'd think there might be dust right up there, wouldn't you? Well, you just choose one of those books—any one, anywhere you like."
"To keep for my own?"
"Keep! Bless my soul, no! Keep! Dear me! dear me! No, just point to a book."
"That one!" says Percival, stretching an arm. "That one in the corner!"