The stately Italianate mansion with its museum and lovely gardens dominated two square blocks at the top of Pacific Heights. Walking through the immense iron doors of the Covington was like entering a Gothic cathedral. You could almost hear the secrets of the universe being whispered by the spirits that inhabited the massive, mahogany-lined room and all the books that sat within its walls.

There was magic here. Whether or not anyone walking inside would admit to a belief in the sacredness of the room, they would instinctively speak in hushed tones as they wound their way through the various rooms and exhibits.

The Covington Library collection was one of the largest and finest in the world. It boasted twelve of Shakespeare’s folios on permanent display, as well as Walt Whitman’s letters and one of the first Gutenberg Bibles. There were shimmering illuminations painted by medieval monks, sixteenth-century correspondence between Queen Elizabeth I and the third earl of Covington, and printed accounts of explorers from Christopher Columbus onward.

Those items shared space with rare first editions of works by Mary Shelley, Hans Christian Andersen, Agatha Christie and Henry David Thoreau. Faulkner, Hemingway and Kingsley Amis shared space with John Lennon’s drawings, Stephen King’s rejection letters, Kurt Cobain’s diaries and an amazing collection of vintage baseball cards. The Covington collection was diverse and often quirky to say the least. To me, that was a major part of its appeal.

After a rollicking ride through the City, Robin dropped me off out front, then drove away to find a safe parking place for her beloved Porsche Speedster. I didn’t bother to wait for her because I knew she’d take her time and make a grand entrance. I just wanted to get inside and see Abraham and the books.

I made my way through the crowd of well-dressed, chatty people gathered in the wide, marble-floored foyer, finally breaking through to the main exhibit room, where I almost slammed right into Abraham.