“Anything at all! Why, a’n’t we here on this bridge, in my booth, with my stall and my—”
“Apples and pears, baked hot, you would say—I don’t know; all is a mystery, a deep question. It is a question, and probably always will be, whether there is a world, and consequently apples and pears; and, provided there be a world, whether that world be like an apple or a pear.”
“Don’t talk so, dear.”
“I won’t; we will suppose that we all exist—world, ourselves, apples, and pears: so you wish to get rid of the book?”
“Yes, dear, I wish you would take it.”
“I have read it, and have no farther use for it; I do not need books: in a little time, perhaps, I shall not have a place wherein to deposit myself, far less books.”
“Then I will fling it into the river.”
“Don’t do that; here, give it me. Now, what shall I do with it? you were so fond of it.”
“I am so no longer.”
“But how will you pass your time; what will you read?”