On rainy summer afternoons one would find himself passing between the tall ionic columns, through the heavy oak doors with the iron gargoyles, stepping quietly across the floors of mosaic tile, staring up at the paintings of the sky on the underside of the rotunda dome, among the reflections and echoes, into the narrow wrought iron stacks to pull stately volumes of Wordsworth and Blake, beneath colossal vaults of marble and pink granite, into the reading room, carved from wood, dark and filled with 19th century air. Tug on brass chain to light soft bulb behind green glass.