I do not know if it's illegal or not, now all the fuss and debate on the subject. But really I say, I see no crime in doing what I do (though some may want to consider crime). For those who have not read, and read it now, nor will be. I do not make anything more than read, and you'll know what I'm talking about
"H nce started reading the novel a few days. The urgent business left, opened it again when returning by train to the farm, were kept interested by the plot slowly, by drawing the characters. That evening, after writing a letter to his attorney and discuss with the butler a matter of sharecropping returned to the book in the quiet of his study which looked into the park of oak trees. Sprawled in his favorite chair with his back to the door that had bothered him as an irritating intrusion possible, let your left hand again and again caress the velvet green and began to read the last chapters. His memory retained without effort the names and pictures of the characters, the fictional illusion him almost immediately. Enjoyed the almost perverse pleasure of going line by line ripping his surroundings, and feel the time your head resting comfortably in the high-backed velvet, that cigarettes were at hand, that beyond windows of the evening air dancing under the oaks. Word by word, absorbed by the sordid dilemma of the hero, letting go the images were arranged and took on color and movement, he witnessed the last meeting in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Crackled admirably it blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. The dagger warmed to his chest, and underneath liberty pounded squat. Panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and felt that everything was decided from eternity. To those caresses entangling lover's body as if to keep him and dissuade him, sketched abominably the figure of another body that was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. Since that time each instant had its use carefully allocated. Merciless review twice interrupted only for a hand caressing his cheek. Began to get dark.
But look now, rigidly fixed to the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the path that led north. From the opposite way he became a moment to watch her run with her hair down. He ran in turn, crouching in the trees and hedges, to distinguish in the fog of dusk the mall leading to the house. Dogs should not bark and no bark. The steward would not be at that hour, and was not. He went up the three porch steps and entered. From the blood in his ears galloping came the woman's words, first a blue room, then a gallery, a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the room, and then the dagger in his hand. In light of the windows, the high back of a chair green velvet, the head of man in the chair reading a novel. "
