"Ruined utterly!" exclaimed Smouri. "Utterly! Is that the end? Ekh! What an accursed business! He was a man, that Tar ass. What do you think? Yes, he was a man."
He took the book out of my hands and looked at it with attention, letting his tears fall on its binding.
"It is a fine book, a regular treat."
After this we read "Ivanhoe." Smouri was very pleased with Richard Plantagenet.
"That was a real king," he said impressively.
To me the book had appeared dry. In fact, our tastes did not agree at all. I had a great liking for "The Story of Thomas Jones," an old translation of "The History of Tom Jones, Foundling," but Smouri grumbled:
"Rubbish! What do I care about your Thomas? Of what use is he to me? There must be some other books."
One day I told him that I knew that there were other books, forbidden books. One could read them only at night, in underground rooms. He opened his eyes wide.
"Wha-a-t's that? Why do you tell me these lies?"
"I am not telling lies. The priest asked me about them when I went to confession, and, for that matter, I myself have seen people reading them and crying over them."