The pages of those old books were yellowed and brittle, and the writing on them was printed, not handwritten.
The content also seemed to be just literature, history, geography, and the like, not the "code books" or "cipher books" he imagined.
But this only made Eric more convinced that it was a front for an illegal clinic.
A real old bookstore wouldn't open in this place.
This rundown street is home to factory workers, dock laborers, and those idle souls without stable jobs.
Who has spare money to buy books?
Who would read books?
The only reason Eric himself could read was that his mother had been a clerk at a textile factory and had taught him a little.
In fact, eighty percent of the people around him couldn't even write their own names properly.
Opening an old bookstore in such a place was like opening a fishing shop in a desert.
So it must be an illegal clinic, with bookshelves and old books serving merely as a disguise.
Eric thought with great certainty.
