IN ENGLAND
out of all these treasures of the world, what would you like to buy? Nothing, nothing whatever; I should like to be tiny, and to stand once more in old Prouza’s shop at Upice, to stare, goggle-eyed, at the black gingerbread, the pepper, the ginger, the vanilla and the laurel leaves, and to think to myself that these are all the treasures of the world and the scents of Arabia and all the spices of distant lands, to be amazed, to sniff and then to run off and read a novel by Jules Verne about strange, distant and rare regions. For I, foolish soul, used to have quite a wrong idea of them.
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