whether there was a way to read them all before she had to do any more teaching at Cambridge.
Novels, some Dickens, The Bell Jar, some geeky pop-science books, a few music books, a few parenting manuals,
Nature by Ralph Waldo Emerson and Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, some stuff on climate change,
and a large hardback called Arctic Dreams: Imagination and Desire in a Northern Landscape.
She had rarely, if ever, been this consistently highbrow. This was clearly what happened when you did a Master’s degree at Cambridge
and then went on sabbatical to write a book on your favourite philosopher. “You’re impressed by me,” she told the dog. “You can admit it.”
There was also a pile of music songbooks, and Nora smiled when she saw that the one on top was the Simon & Garfunkel one
she had sold to Ash the day he had asked her out for a coffee. On the coffee table there was a nice glossy hardback book
of photographs of Spanish scenery and on the sofa there was something called The Encyclopedia of Plants and Flowers.
And in the magazine rack there was the brand-new National Geographic with the picture of the black hole on the cover.
There was a picture on the wall. A Miró print from a museum in Barcelona. “Have me and Ash been to Barcelona together, Plato?”
She imagined them both, hand-in-hand, wandering the streets of the Gothic Quarter together, popping into a bar for tapas and Rioja.
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