The library was warm and quiet and smelled of old paper and floor wax.
It was November 1955. The heating in the building was unreliable, but the reference section on the third floor was usually warm because it was near the boiler room. Tom liked the boiler room warmth. It was a steady heat, the kind that came from something deep underground working continuously, unseen but essential. He identified with that. He was twenty-six and the son of Irish immigrants who...
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