“I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered this kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridge with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cakes of gingerbread whenever he met her on the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the wilderness of books, in which she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap or was busy with company Jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy-chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures, like a regular bookworm.”
Louisa May Alcott, Little Women, (Wilco Publishing, 2004), p.43-44.